Jabberwocky
by Rahuratna
Summary: An ancient grudge re-surfaces as the spirit of the ring returns to his host. But knowledge and trust can build new bridges between Bakura and the man he has despised and he will learn the true meaning of treachery before the darkness claims them both ...
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Yugioh or any characters from Yugioh described in this fic.

"Twas brillig, and the slithy toves

Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;

All mimsy were the borogoves,

And the mome raths outgrabe."

"Jabberwocky" - Lewis Carrol

**Jabberwocky**

* * *

How simple it seemed. A children's poem, nonsensical at best. Ryou Bakura, however, had always been imaginative; a little too much so. The images it had conjured in his five-year-old mind had been of sinuous, wizened trees, gloomy shadows in which nameless things hid and cackled, darkness chasing the last of the moonbeams across the forest floor. Light did not belong there. And yet, frozen with fear as he was in these half-dreams, there was always something that drove him on to seek what it was that terrified him so. It was his downfall, the thing that had made him pick up the beautiful, and yet sinister golden ring, that made him ignore the cold whispers, the mocking laughter that seemed to penetrate his very soul. The spirit of the ring; his nemesis, a creature of night, of fear, created in his own image. The shadow that stalked him through the dark forests ever populating his dreams. His Jabberworcky.

* * *

"Bakura?"

Elbow slipping partially off the table where it had been unconsciously resting for the last half-hour, the white-haired boy glanced up sheepishly. "Yugi, I'm sorry, I . . ."

The shorter boy grinned back. "No need to explain." He hopped up, seating himself on the table-top across from Bakura, legs dangling some distance off the ground.

"Watcha doin?" Joey Wheeler's voice preceeded him. A lanky arm reached over Bakura's shoulder and snatched the open text book. "Gaaah, trig ratios . . ." He dropped the heavy book, narrowly missing the white-haired boy's head. "Bad for ya health, man."

Bakura watched him with a strange fascination reserved for chimpanzees and Picasso artworks as the blonde boy simultaneously ripped open three packets of crisps and began to wolf them down ravenously. Yugi seemed not to mind and prattled on, regardless of the occasional damp crumb ending up in his lap.

"Haven't seen you around, lately. Do you always hole yourself up in here?"

Underlying the cheery tone was a hint of concern and Bakura sighed inwardly. "Everything's fine, Yugi." He did not add that he just preferred being alone now and then.

Joey paused, watching him closely with a scrutiny that was unsettling in those candid brown eyes. "If I ain't mistaken, ya lookin' kinda peaky, man."

He wrinkled his nose in what the girls seemed to think was an endearing fashion. "Caught in the rain the other day . . . might be coming down with something."

Joey nodded, still looking slightly unconvinced. Yugi glanced between them, large eyes betraying just how awkward he thought this moment was.

Clearing his throat, Bakura stood. "Well, class in a few minutes . . . "

"Hey, we ain't chasin' ya!" Joey had the grace to look embarrassed. "Tell ya what, we'll walk ya."

Before he could protest, an arm generously coated in spring-onion flavoured crumbs was draped rather forcefully over his shoulders and he was dragged forth, a resigned expression in place. He was glad his hair had escaped yet another tousle.

* * *

They had invited him to the game shop after school, Joey even offering to wait for him at his locker. His heart warmed slightly when he realised that the boy was trying his hardest to make up for earlier. But he _was_ feeling rather under the weather. After politely declining, he took the quickest route home.

The apartment was dark; he had forgotten to draw the blinds. Cursing softly, he stumbled through the living room, twisting the cord as rapidly as possible. He drew in a sharp breath of relief as light flooded the room.

"Silly twit, afraid of the dark." He grinned shakily, adjusting his school coat, knowing just how hollow his words sounded. He ambled into the kitchen, popping a frozen pizza into the oven and pouring himself a glass of orange juice. Much to his annoyance, his hand was still quivering. Setting the glass firmly down on the counter, he took another deep breath and began to count to ten.

"One . . . two . . . "

A bird sang outside on the windowsill. He could hear his neighbour's lawnmower, muted sounds of an action movie on television.

" . . . three . . . four . . ."

The clatter of crockery as someone did the dishes. Another clinking sound, closer. The zip and hum of the kitchen light above his head as it began to flicker.

" . . . five . . . six . . ."

A rattling, much closer again. He opened his eyes, feeling the edge of the kitchen table dig into his fingers. The light was completely extinguished with the soft 'ping' of a dying element. He remembered in a detached manner that he had changed the bulb just last week.

" . . . seven . . . eight . . ."

The blinds in the living room sprang shut. The cutlery began to rattle harder, forks and knives beating out a staccato tune. Cupboard doors sprang open around him, narrowly missing his face, but he remained immobile. Lips drew back from teeth in a ghastly rictus of horror as he felt a familiar weight sink like a lodestone around his neck.

" . . . nine . . . ten."

The last word was a whisper. Somewhere, a lawnmower still ran, a child shrieked with laughter. He lowered his eyes, the only part of him that he dared move, and saw his distorted reflection stare back from the glass of orange juice. Ripples swirled across the surface. In some other part of his mind, one that still denied the logic of what was happening to him, he could say that the darkening of his eyes, the slanting of their lids, the unruly spikiness of his hair and the sharp canines that gleamed through a cocky half-smile were figments of his imagination. But he knew better.

Something snapped. He wrenched himself away from the table with a hoarse cry. Stumbling backwards, he fled into the living room, snatching up his keys from the table. A laugh ghosted past his ear.

"No! No! You won't! Not again!"

A rough sob burst from his throat as he desperately tried to push the key into the lock, but somehow, it wouldn't fit.

"Landlooooord . . ." The mocking whisper echoed throughout the apartment, trailing teasingly.

"Bastard! You bastard! Leave me alone!" He screamed, hammering with all his might on the door, the key lying forgotten on the rug.

"Now, now, is that any way to talk to your friends?"

A ragged, humourless laugh escaped him as a familiar rage and hopelessness flared through his veins. "I HOPE YOU BURN IN HELL!"

"Landlord!" The voice chided him as if he were a child, but the ethereal force that knocked him backwards over the sofa was anything but gentle. "Do I have to educate you in manners _all over again?_"

Groaning slightly, Bakura flopped over onto his stomach, opened one eye and froze. There was a foot beside his head. A slightly transparent foot wearing his school shoe. His gaze travelled upwards unwillingly, past the school trousers, the hand casually tucked into the right pocket, past the coat, looking slightly more imposing on the somehow sharper, broader angles of the shoulder and chest, the strong, slender throat, the aquiline jaw, the feral smile, the bottomless, shadowed eyes and lastly, the single eyebrow cocked so high it disappeared under the unruly hair.

"Missed me?"

A strangled cry escaped him and he rolled away, scrambling upright, feet slipping on the rug beneath him. The spirit watched with an expression of disdain.

"Stop that!" was the sharp order.

But it had been too long. The boy had forgotten the terror, the isolation that the spirit had brought. There was an answering spark in his gaze that was unsettling. The ancient thief's eyes narrowed and Bakura watched with increasing alarm as he seemed to grow where he stood, bone-chilling shadows swirling from behind his slender, erect frame.

"So . . ." the word escaped his lips as a poisonous hiss, "You defy me?

"Yes," whispered, so low that even the spirit's sharp ears strained to pick it up.

A bark of laughter. "You still think you can defeat me? After all the times I've proven to you that it is impossible?"

Bakura straightened, now as erect as the spirit. For so long he had been free, free to make friends, to laugh, to feel no darkness creeping over his shoulder, tainting his dreams, to bask in the sun for hours, to scatter breadcrumbs for the birds, to eat ice-cream as he watched the wind stir the trees . . . He would not let his freedom escape so easily. This time he would not crumble.

The spirit was watching him with an unreadable expression. If he could see Bakura's internal struggle, he said nothing about it.

"What do you want?"

There was no answer and the spirit continued to stare at him, unblinking, cold and scrutinizing.

"You know I'll fight you."

The thief lowered his eyelids, considering Bakura cunningly from beneath them. "Do you even know why I am here?"

The boy sputtered in incoherence. "Of course I . . . You always . . . You think I don't . . ."

"Oh, shut up, you twit. You have no idea, do you?"

Bakura gazed at him in bewilderment, realising that there was something strange occurring. "The Millenium items . . .?"

The thief grinned, turning to face him fully and he shuddered at the hardness behind the casual humour.

"No, fool. Guess again."

* * *

**A/N**: I thought I would give Bakura a little more spunk than he's usually portrayed with. I feel it will make their interactions a little more interesting . . .


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:**

**Jabberwocky**

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!

The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!

Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun

The frumious Bandersnatch!"

"Jabberwocky" - Lewis Carrol

* * *

Silence reigned in the small apartment as Bakura and the spirit locked gazes. The younger was the first to break the taut atmosphere.

"So . . . why are you here?"

The spirit noted the defiance still present, the firm lines to the boy's posture that had never been there before.

"I am here for you."

Bakura's eyes widened slightly. "For . . . for me?"

"Yes." The ghostly form seated itself casually on the arm of the sofa, gesturing for Bakura to do the same. The unnatural civility and calmness only increased his unease. He complied, sitting at the far edge on the opposite side, ready to spring up at a moment's notice.

The spirit restrained the urge to roll his eyes. Trust was the key here. He turned, examining Bakura again. Yes, a definite change.

"You are in danger," he said, abruptly.

The boy stared back, blinking slowly. "Danger?"

The spirit nodded gravely. "You know, host, that I will risk no harm to you."

Bakura involuntarily glanced at the rumpled sofa over which he had just somersaulted. The spirit sneered. "I mean more harm than a few bruises, you dolt."

The insult seemed to sting something in him. He sat up straighter. "What kind of danger?"

"An ancient one."

Bakura groaned inwardly. Experience had taught him that anything with that description was the worst of its kind. The spirit shot him a half-amused glance from under the long, snowy lashes.

"Am I really that bad?" he cooed in mock falsetto.

Cursing, Bakura remembered the mind link. He cleared his throat nervously. "Um . . . I think you could answer that better than I could, actually."

"Very good, host. You learn some civility. Perhaps this is not a total loss after all." The thief stood and began to pace slowly before the wary boy.

"Have you been having any odd dreams lately?"

"Odd . . . well, yes, but no more than usual . . ."

"Describe them." The order was sharply put, the cold eyes narrowing. Bakura shifted uncomfortably.

"Why do you want to know?" he demanded in turn, suspicion turning his voice sharp.

The spirit considered him, a small smile playing around the corners of his mouth. A sheen of sweat broke out on Bakura's forehead. He recognized that smile; the anger beneath it.

"How long do you think you'll last?" The question was deadly soft, "How long do you think you have,_ boy_? You didn't do very well the last time you were in the shadows . . . this time it will be far worse than anything _I_ would willingly do to you . . ."

Despite himself, Bakura felt the old sense of fear creeping in. He knew that the spirit would not risk any lasting damage to him; he was the 'vessel' after all. Thieving, double-crossing, deception, that had always been the spirit's way. What made this time any different? Was there really a threat, or was this yet another ploy to gain possession of his free will? Schooling his face into an indifference that surprised even the thief, he looked up.

"What do these dreams have to do with . . . this danger?"

"Everything."

"You'll have to be more specific," he said, far more boldly than he felt. He knew that somehow, he would pay for this later. Dearly.

The spirit smiled beautifically, and, for an instant, Bakura was looking at a mirror image of himself. "Tut, tut, details all come in good time. The shadow I sense is one with which I was . . . acquainted. A long time ago." The smile twisted. "And he has no mercy for the weak. What was it you dreamt, landlord?"

There was no mistaking the command in his tone now. Bakura watched him carefully as he spoke.

"There's no harm in telling you, I suppose. They're mostly the same, short, repetitive. I'm standing on a tall cliff, overlooking a city. It's night, everything is dark." He paused reflectively and the spirit resisted the urge to tear into his mind and see for himself. "There are people around me, a shadowy group, they're all on horseback. We are watching the city, waiting for something to happen. Then someone speaks and the dream ends." He looked up at the spirit.

"That's all you remember?"

"Yes . . ."

"What did the person say?"

"I don't know! It didn't sound like any language I recognize . . ."

"So its a man?"

The boy nodded, growing more and more curious by the second. The spirit was deep in thought, shaking his head as if dissatisfied. "Too vague . . ." He looked up at Bakura, the cunning light re-entering his slanted gaze. "I cannot be sure unless you confirm it."

"Confirm what?" The uneasiness was creeping back into his mind.

"That what you saw in this . . . dream was what I think it was."

"What are you planning?" He was off the sofa faster than before, backing towards the door.

His mirror image laughed mockingly back at him. "And where do you think you're going?"

"Away from you! You think I trust you?" he shouted.

"Oh, but you should. Without my help you will not survive long. And I simply couldn't have that . . ."

The rest of the sentence was lost in Bakura's desperate barrage on the door. "HELP! HELP! SOMEBODY LET ME OUT!"

Thus, he missed the spirit's slightly bored expression as he came up behind him and lightly placed a translucent hand on either side of his head. The brown eyes rolled back as he collapsed on the rug and the spirit smirked as he vanished into the Ring once more.

* * *

"Welcome back, drowsy."

Bakura groaned, the mocking tones of the spirit even more unwelcome than the splitting pain wracking the back of his head. It happened every time he was forcibly dragged into unconciousness; into his soul room. The area in question supposedly took on the form of the place in which one felt most at home, the true resting place of the soul. This had been explained during one of the more benevolent moods of the spirit of the ring. Bakura had found himself here numerous times before. The reading room of the house he used to live in. When he had a family. Sitting up, eyelids blinking open blearily, the panelled walls of the room came into focus, the fireplace in which a blaze always crackled, the closed glass cases under which the more prized artifacts from his father's explorations rested, the newspaper cuttings on the cork board, the rough sketches scattered haphazardly over the desktop, the small, neat bookcases, the window casement . . . Turning slowly, the man lounging casually against the glass pane came into view. The spirit waggled his fingers infuriatingly.

Bakura stood rapidly, fists bunched, blood thundering in his head. "I KNEW IT!" He advanced on the lithe figure who was now grinning back, arms crossed behind his head. The dismissal was enough for the boy. He launched himself mindlessly at his tormentor, grappling with him and tearing him from his seat. They crashed to the floor, the thief kneeing Bakura in the gut and flipping him painfully onto his back. Powerful fingers enclosed his throat, slamming his head back into the wooden floor.

"Let . . . me . . . go . . ." Face turning an alarming shade of red, he flailed futilely at the spectre above him, so elusive in reality, so solid and undefeatable here, invading the place only he should control.

"You really are an imbecile," the spirit said musingly, seeming to take no effort at all in holding him down. He went on in the neutral tone of a teacher delivering an algebra lesson. "In this place you are not restricted by physicality. It is the strength of your soul that you should be exploiting."

He released Bakura, stepping gracefully away from the boy's prone form. "Get up."

Sitting up, he did not comply immediately, but shot an enraged, accusing stare at his smirking adversary. "You tricked me! I should have known what this was the moment you appeared!"

"You really _are_ good at jumping to conclusions. You should consider a political career, landlord."

Bakura humphed, folding his arms and staring at the wall ahead. "Well, don't you have things to steal? In my body?" he snapped.

"All in good time." The spirit deemed it time to approach. Bakura wondered how much longer the indulgence would last before the tide turned and left him very much on the receiving end. "I keep my promises, landlord. I would like you to remain alive long enough to serve my purposes."

The barb made the boy wince, much to the thief's satisfaction. "And now your education in 'all things that would harm you' commences. Let's begin with the foremost on that long list."

He waved his fingers, balancing elegantly on his heels, and a wall lined with bookcases vanished, quickly replaced with what appeared to Bakura to be a very large, insubstantial television screen. Scrambling to his feet, he moved closer, frowning at the shadowy shapes chasing across the murky surface.

"After you . . ."

Mistrustfully, he glanced at the thief who was now rocking back and forth, smiling congenially. The smile vanished immediately, replaced with a snarl.

"Very well, cockroach, after me it is."

Somehow, the insult was a lot more reassuring. Bakura stepped into the swirling shadows after the swiftly striding spirit.

* * *

The harsh, biting wind, sweeping sand past his face, whipping back hair from his forehead, was the first thing he felt. Shivering, he wrapped his arms around himself, realising that the effects of the night weather were actually much diluted due to this being a memory, a projection of a time long past. The spirit's memory. Looking around, Bakura saw no sign of him. Cursing, he trudged up the incline ahead, the howl of the wind the only distinguishable sound. Thus it was that he came upon them, a line of shadowy shapes outlined against the night sky. He tripped, stumbling backwards in panic, gathering his wits when he realised that they could not see him. A memory . . .

Approaching the motionless figures once more, he squatted a safe distance away, examining them as best the darkness allowed. Although covered in cloaks to keep out the chafing sand, heads swathed in linen wraps, Bakura could see that these were no ordinary men. There was an effortlessness with which they handled their horses, a deadly grace with which they bore the variety of terrible weapons, a gleam of restrained eagerness that reflected now and again from exposed eyes that told Bakura exactly who these men were. Who they belonged to. Body, mind and soul.

There was no need for him to search, his eyes were drawn to the man who had brought him here as if by magnetism. In the weak moonlight filtering from between the ghostly clouds, the red cloak danced in the wind, the gold bands across the bare chest clinked softly, the huge black stallion beneath him snorting, breath clouding in the chilly night air. As if in a dream, Bakura approached, pausing when the light allowed him to examine the Thief King closely enough. The hair remained mostly unchanged, if a trifle more unruly, tufts standing out like a self-endowed crown around his proud, unclad head. The eyes, the ever-changing greyish-blue of the sea, as treacherous and as changeable, the corded neck, a tiger straining in his eagerness for blood, the broad-shouldered torso, easily outmatching any of the assembled men behind him, the muscular knees that gripped the horse's sides beneath the saddle. Bakura's gaze traveled to the hands that grasped the reigns, so different from the slender, pale, artful digits he was accustomed to. The powerful, dark-skinned appendages were heavily veined, the palms callused, knuckles scarred and knotted from the ferocity and violence they were accustomed to meting out, each hand large enough to cup (and crush) Bakura's skull like a leaf in a hurricane. There was nothing remotely fragile about the Thief King, nothing that seemed to connect him to his modern counterpart aside from the gleaming hair. For the first time since he had been aware of the spirit, Bakura felt something bordering on respect and awe.

Glancing around, his eyes widened. This was the scene from his dream . . . hazy, but he knew it well enough. And he had been . . . he shuddered slightly when he realised that he had been occupying a position beside the Thief King and hadn't even been aware of it. There was a shift, an ever so slight change in the mens' demeanour. The Thief King spoke, words in Arabic that Bakura could not understand and he looked up rapidly, in time to hear a distant sound much like a roll of thunder and a mushrooming cloud of smoke and flame erupting from the town ahead. The tension amongst the men broke. Harsh, grating, voices rough with ill-use, they cheered the destruction of some far-away enemy. Bakura winced, stumbling back again as the horses wheeled around with martial conformity. The man beside the Thief King, the one whose position he had occupied in his dream, pushed back his hood and Bakura beheld a dark beard, grizzled cheeks, a leonine mass of wiry hair and a craggy profile, much lined and scarred with battle and travel under the blazing Egyptian sun. But it was the eyes which arrested him. Unlike the Thief King, who carried himself with the pride and grace of a young leopard in his prime, dominance clearly reflected in his gaze, this man was almost hunched over in the saddle, the eyes so hooded and dark as to appear as unfathomable tunnels.

"You see, my Lord, I told you that my skill in covert arts was . . . commendable."

Bakura started slightly at his sudden ability to comprehend Arabic. The spirit had probably effected the change.

The Thief King spared his companion a glance. "You do yourself an injustice, Usi. That was quite something to witness." The distant shouts of panic and terror filtered back to them, carried on the wind. The white-haired man smirked, leaning back in his saddle and cocking his head to one side. "I never thought that screaming could sound so pleasurable from so far away."

"Unless its a woman . . . then its no fun at all!" one of his men called.

The thief grinned. "I'd grant honour to the woman who could speak at all after experiencing me," he replied, earning a roar of approving laughter from his men.

Bakura's attention, however, was not caught by the bawdy camaraderie, but rather by the strange watchfulness of the man called Usi. He alone was unaffected by the men's enthusiasm, the hooded eyes remaining on the Thief King, strange, vigilant.

A single cry resounded through the night, echoed by many others. "All hail Khemnebi! Glory to our King!"

If Bakura had been able to read the man better, he would almost have said that he detected a gleam of satisfaction, not a welcome one. And it seemed as if he were not the only one who noticed. As the band of thieves thundered away into the night, a wild, dark river of heedless grace and destruction, the Thief King had passed close by him, glancing briefly over his shoulder at Usi, the deep distrust momentarily visible on his sharp features. Then the blue-grey eyes flashed past and he was yet another shapeless shadow, the rushing of the wind catching the crimson edges of his cloak.

"All hail Khemnebi! Lord of all Thieves!"

* * *

The darkness around him began to recede, his vision clouding over, the flickering of the firelight and the comforting, musty odour of old books forming a sensory jigsaw that led him back to his soul room. He blinked, once, twice. From across the room, the spirit watched him. And for the first time, Bakura felt no shame in the word, no sense of futility, no cloying of his throat at the very mention of it.

"Yami?"

There was something he had learnt tonight, what he had witnessed was not the pure malice, venom, the biting coldness he was accustomed to. He had seen the untamed, the free, a soul with no boundaries or conformities. Was judgement really his own? Surprise echoed across the mindlink and he broke his train of thought hastily. That man was long gone, crushed from memory by his own hand. Shaking his head as if to clear it, he advanced.

"Who was that man? Usi . . ."

The spirit pushed off the wall against which he had been leaning. His eyes glinted, catching the amber sparks leaping from the fire.

"That, Bakura, is the right question."

* * *

**A/N: **And that was a very long chapter . . . excuse the length!


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Yugioh or any character depicted in this fic.

**Jabberwocky**

"He took his vorpal sword in hand:

Long time the manxome foe he sought - -

So rested he by the Tumtum tree,

And stood awhile in thought"

"Jabberwocky" - Lewis Carrol

* * *

The fire flickered gently, tongues of flame bathing his feet in a familiar, comforting heat. His yami came forward, closer to the blaze, to him, and he did not move away. Without looking at him, the spirit spoke.

"Usi. In our ancient tongue this was the word for smoke. It never fitted anybody better than it did him."

Bakura frowned. "Was he one of your men?"

He was answered by a snort. "Oh no. He was never one of mine. I'd known him too long for that."

"So . . . you knew him as you were growing up?"

A grimace followed, quickly banished. "Kul Elna was my village. Before the Pharoah's men destroyed it." He held up a hand to stall Bakura's questions. The boy closed his mouth hurriedly. "Usi was a wanderer, a gypsy you could say. He came to our village many times before the massacre. I knew him, for the short periods he stayed."

Silence. "And?" Bakura prompted.

The reddish glow on the spirit's skin made him seem almost transluscent and Bakura experienced a moment of intense internal struggle equating him to the rough, wild, reckless bandit he had seen. The spirit was so much colder, contained, calculating. Having his soul trapped in a Millenium item for so many ages was the cause, no doubt, one that had sapped his joy in everything that people set value on, the ability to feel, to take pleasure in little wonders, to be alive . . .

Turning to face him, the spirit broke his train of thought. "The man I once knew was ageless. He looked much the same in that memory as when I first saw him. He disappeared the night before the Pharoah's men came. It made me wonder . . . long after when I thought about it. There was no real connection I could make." The sharp features contorted in a shadow of long forgotten hate. "He returned, many years later. He had sought me out, purposefully. Said his skills in sabotage and stealth would benefit me greatly."

"And you didn't kill him on sight?" Bakura cocked an eyebrow sceptically.

The spirit rolled his eyes. "No, fool, how else would I exploit his talents while getting the answers I wanted?"

The boy stared back. A corner of his mouth twitched involuntarily. Apparantly oblivious, his yami continued. "He had a knack for escaping tight corners. A way of coming back all the time."

Bakura was tempted to point out some glaring similarities, but was saved the trouble by the thief's own words as he glanced at him with a cunning smile. "Yes, I learnt a lot from him, boy. More than you know. More than he himself knew."

"So it's him," said Bakura softly, "You think he's returned, somehow."

The spirit whirled around, a snarl evident. "I _know_ that he's returned, you fool! You're not the only one whose been having dreams! He's back, and he's going to use _you_!"

Bakura started, eyes widening. "Wha . . . what . . . why?"

"Because you're the weak link. Without you I cannot manifest in the physical world. We are light and darkness. He knows he cannot defeat me, he's tried before, but I was always a step ahead. This time, my soul is complete only while you are alive. You must be wary host, but you must learn to trust me. When he strikes, I must face him. And you have to be willing to let me do that."

Shaking his head as if to clear it of confusion, the boy stared back, misgiving clear in his eyes. "You've used me one time too many," he whispered.

"And this time, I do it for your sake! For both of our survival! You don't know who we're dealing with!"

"You do nothing for anyone's sake but your own." He took a step back, placing more distance between them. "You warn me of this danger, but you give me no proof."

And the tide turned, the spirit's anger lifting him right off the ground and pinning him to the wall upside-down. "You dare question me . . ." The voice was one of pure venom, the eyes narrowed to cobra slits, rage delineated on every taught muscle in the wiry body. Struggling wildly, Bakura felt a sudden surge of emotion along the mind link, one that startled him so much that he froze. For a moment, the faintest fraction of a second, he could have sworn that the spirit was . . . afraid. A howl of fury escaped the thief as he detected Bakura's unprotected thought. Shouting in terror the boy felt himself wrenched from the wall, crashing to the floor, wincing as a foot came down on his cheek, holding his head painfully in place.

"I . . . I'm sorry!" He raised his hands, trying to pry the relentless spirit off but his arms were caught by the invisible bands of force once again and thrust downwards. Eyes watering in pain, he made out the blurry outline of his yami dropping into a crouch beside him.

"Do you know that he betrayed me to the Pharoah? That those _skills_ he so freely offered nearly killed me? He knew me as a boy, he knew what happened to my village. He had hated me as a child for a single deed I performed in innocence, he hated me as an adult. Nothing had changed, no matter how respectful and obseqious he appeared. He enjoyed manipulation, suffering, to see his opponent crushed so low that he would never rise again. I hunted him, I cornered him and _he escaped!_ I was the King of all Thieves, nobody dared defy me unless they wished a slow . . . painful . . . death . . ." each of the words being punctuated by a vicious twist of Bakura's hair. Clenching his teeth tightly, the boy resisted the urge to scream in agony. He knew that a display of weakness would not benefit him now. The spirit released him abruptly and he let out an involuntary gasp of relief. "What would you know, boy? You've led a sheltered life, a pampered, spoilt little puppy, much like the royal brats at the palace. You've never had to kill for a scrap of bread, steal to sustain your very soul, never had to watch your life, your home, _your people _burn for another's greed. You dream don't you? I know you do. I watch your pathetic hopes for a better life, for friends, for _acceptance_." A cruel laugh lashed at Bakura's ears, barbed wire scoring bare flesh. "Did you ever wonder what it would have been like if you'd never had a choice? If all you had to live by were your own wits, your cunning, your quickness with a blade? In my world there was never a chance for acceptance. I was a demon, marked by my own hair. Even the gods would shun my pleas. That was what the priests told me the first time I tried to offer prayers. I was five years old. I had just escaped the desert, just watched my family torn to pieces, survived for weeks by eating locusts and sucking the fat from lizards. I was bloody, delirious, almost beyond saving. The temple was cool and dark. I had heard of the Gods. I hoped that they would help me. Instead I received a kick to the head and a curse. That was when I stopped hoping, boy. That was when I learned that people are cruel, sick and twisted creatures. You cannot trust them, they do not trust you. Remember that, at least, if not a fraction of what I have taught you, and you might survive what this man will bring to us."

As suddenly as he had attacked, the spirit backed away. Bakura sat up slowly, a burning, prickling sensation behind his eyes, one he recognised too well. Refusing to meet his yami's invasive stare, he began to rise, only to find a pale, sinewy hand thrust before his face. He took it, allowing himself to be pulled firmly to his feet. The burning sensation grew and he looked away. The spirit said nothing, but Bakura could feel his gaze.

"H . . . How did he come back?" His voice was hoarse, but controlled.

"I do not know. The Millenium Items were not the only magical resources at that time. There were many instruments of power, though none as great, which might have been capable of housing a spirit, or more. And I'm willing to stake my soul on the fact that he knew of these and possessed at least one."

"And you . . . you've been having dreams too?"

"Yes, boy, the same as those you yourself have, night after night."

Bakura looked up in surprise, his misery temporarily forgotten. "The same?"

"Not entirely." If he wasn't mistaken, the spirit seemed almost pleased at his emotional control. "In my dreams, I am myself and Usi is beside me. In your dream, you were Usi. Don't look so surprised, fool. You need much better control of the mind link. Your positions were interchanged. It is a clear warning that he will involve you as deeply as he can. I remember well the feeling I got when he was close or approaching. It was the same, a message from him. He will not let me go, even now. It is unmistakeable."

"And what is this feeling?" asked the boy, tentatively.

The spirit watched him blankly. "It is unmistakeable," he repeated.

* * *

"He's different."

"No, he isn't! He looks the same to me . . . "

"Looks can be deceiving, we know that, Yugi."

"I know, Yami, but I don't _sense_ anything different about him either. He just looks tired. And he did say he was feeling a bit peaky."

"Whatever it is, I don't like it. And somehow, I think I know . . . "

"No," returned the spiky-haired boy firmly, "We can't assume that. The spirit of the ring hasn't made an appearance for some time now."

"That's not to say he won't. He's been biding his time for three thousand years, a few months . . . really now."

Despite himself, Yugi smiled. "I don't think so. But that's not to say we shouldn't make sure . . ."

The Pharoah chuckled. "Very well. Invite him to the game shop after your lessons."

* * *

"Please Bakura? We'll order take-out, my grandpa's got this great new RPG . . ."

The taller boy reached up and ruffled his hair awkwardly. "Um . . . I'd love to, Yugi, but . . ."

"Please? You've been looking really down recently . . . I know, I know, you've got a chill, but hanging around in that apartment all by yourself won't help either."

Bakura sighed. "All right, I suppose there's no harm." He gave a defeated smile in response to Yugi's beaming one. "See you after school."

* * *

How wrong he had been. No harm indeed. And so it came to this . . . an entirely unwanted confrontation between two angry spirits and two teenage boys to intervene. Well, not completely.

"Bakura, listen to me," the ancient Pharoah folded his arms, imposing and authoritative as ever. "If the spirit is back, and I know he is, I can sense his darkness, you need to be open with me. I cannot help you if you hide and keep things from your friends. We both know where it landed you the last time . . . "

"Yami, don't be so harsh!" came Yugi's reprimand across the mind link.

The Pharoah sighed in slight assent, gazing at the stubborn figure seated across from him. "Bakura, please . . ."

The white-haired boy frowned down at the table-top. "Yami Yugi, I'm going to call you that because . . . well . . . I'm not supposed to say Pharoah . . ."

An imperious snort. "Do not let that insolent thief dictate terms to you."

Bakura winced as an internal barrage of indignance beat at his mind. "Yes, about that . . . he's back."

It was Yugi's turn to send a shamefaced chuckle down the mind link. The Pharoah shook his head. "It doesn't matter what he's done in the past, Bakura. It's your life and you make the choices. He is a Yami, your relationship should be a mutually beneficial one, a peaceful co-existence . . ."

Another comment reached Bakura from the thief, this one concerning where "that pompous ass" could shove his "condescending, sentimental advice".

Clearing his throat, the boy looked up at the Pharoah, holding his gaze. "Yami Yugi, the spirit of the ring has returned to help me."

A silence greeted this statement. Bakura could almost smell the Pharoah's disbelief radiating from him in powerful waves. The spirit quieted down within him, which he was thankful for.

"Help . . . you? Why?"

"I am in danger. He warned me and I have reason to believe that he will protect me to the best of his abilities."

"_Really?" _Anger was growing behind the dark violet eyes and Bakura shivered. "Why don't you tell him to come out and elaborate on this . . . danger."

Fingers digging into the bottom of the tables surface so that the Pharoah would not notice, Bakura tried his utmost to quell the rising, choking control of the spirit within him. He knew he would not last long unless he stopped this immediately.

He shook his head furiously. "No, Yami Yugi, he won't tell you anything. But he's telling the truth, I know it."

"How can you defend him?" asked the Pharoah in disbelief, "He's a common thief, a murderer, the worst outlaw of our time . . ."

And before he was even conscious of what he was doing, Bakura was on his feet, the chair pushed over, clattering to the ground. "He's not lying! Are you always this quick to judge? He's nothing like you, I know. He'll never be gentle or kind or helpful, but he's _my_ yami! _My_ darkness! It's _my_ soul he shares, not yours. I'm not a child, neither am I helpless and I _can_ fight my own battles. Let me deal with this . . . let him help me the way you help Yugi." He stopped, breathing hard, his pale face flushed, the placid brown eyes flashing with undisguised defiance. The Pharoah stared at the boy across him as if seeing him for the first time.

And strange, creeping, involuntary, came the connection between the shy, charming, peace-loving British boy and a bandit who had once been the terror of all Egypt . . .

* * *

"My Pharoah, the prisoner you requested brought before you."

"Bring him in."

Atem sat in the place of honour at his father's right, watching with interest as the man was escorted in, his progress through the audience chambers somewhat impeded by the number of lowered spears surrounding him. Atem's eyes widened as he took in the infamous thief. He had heard of his legendary appearance, but nothing quite prepared one for the sheer, overwhelming nature of the man's dominance. He saw now how it was possible for one man to gather under him the worst and most skilled of Egypt's bandits in a single, devastating onslought against the monarchy. Yet, there were flaws in the best-laid plans as was evident here. Here he was, the King of Thieves, under their power, betrayed by one of his own. The white hair gleamed like a beacon in the light cast by the torches, the powerful torso, bare and scored deeply with barbed whips, the eyes gleaming like a wild cat's, unearthly power, deathly amusement, a madman's hunger blazing from their veiled depths as he surveyed the Pharoah, sparing not a glance for the boy at his side. Khemnebi, the black panther, as he was known to his men. A shimmering collar of swirling energy surrounded his throat, a collective enchantment effected by the high priests of the Royal Temple, preventing the summoning of the terrible Ka beast that had been commonly named as the scourge of Upper Egypt. The restraints had done nothing to dampen his spirit, however, evident from his arrogant posture and the cocky smirk.

"Thief," boomed the Pharoah, "You have been summoned before this council to answer for your crimes against the people of our land, Egypt. Read the charges."

One of the High Priests in attendance, Gahiji, raised a scroll of papyrus that was almost amusing in its hefty length if it weren't for the gravity of the charges inscribed thereon. "Unlawful life-taking of citizens of Egypt, of members of the royal guard, of the city guard, of guardians of the royal tombs, plundering of aforementioned tombs, unlawful acquisition of wealth belonging to the Royal Treasury . . ."

The longer and more convoluted the charges leveled against him, the broader became the careless smile. When Gahiji was complete, a deathly silence reigned in the audience hall. The Pharoah's booming voice broke the spell the reading of the Thief's crimes had brought.

"How do you answer to these charges, thief?"

The one called Khemnebi laughed, a deep, raspy chuckle that made the young prince actually wish that he were elsewhere. "How do I answer? How about yourself, _your Majesty_ . . . how do you answer for crimes committed against the people of Egypt?"

Atem glanced up at his father in bewilderment. The Pharoah's face was cast in stone. "How do you answer to the charges, Thief? Repent before your soul is judged and consumed . . . "

Another laugh, derisive, demented. "Everything I have done, all atrocities I commit are in _your_ name, Pharoah. I am a product of your own darkness . . . or do the crimes of a king bear no weight on the scales of justice? Is this your definition of a fair trial? When the judge's heart is as black as the man he condemns?"

"This man speaks treason!" cried Gahiji, "Seize him!"

The royal guard closed ranks again, the harsh prod of a spear to the base of the prisoner's neck forcing him to move towards the chamber doors. "Your flimsy palace walls will not hold me! You have but to wait for my vengeance to fall upon you, greater than ever before . . . "

With this dire warning ringing in their ears, the High Priests and the Pharoah were left in a strange emptiness, one that succeeds a presence of great power, of great destruction.

* * *

Khemnebi had escaped that very night, assisted by the best of his bandits. A more daring attempt had never been documented in the history of their dynasty, but Atem did not dwell on the details. It was said that the thief had not wasted another moment after being free of the palace walls; he had begun the search for the informer in his ranks immediately, a man called Usi. Some said he had found and killed the man within two days, some sources said otherwise. Most where in favour of the former theory.

Whatever the outcome of Khemnebi's brief imprisonment, there was no mistaking the mark he had left on Atem's reign and that of his father, a catalyst for the upheaval and strife that followed. The former Pharoah had never thought to see a reflection of that same spirit, that anger within any other man, and yet here stood this boy, this young, impressionable, timid vessel of an age old fury. Here he stood with a rebellion burning within him, one that flared from his own spirit, not that housed in the Millenium Ring. For a moment, Atem had seen how they were connected, the desire for freedom that spurred them both; the King of all Thieves and Ryou Bakura.

* * *

**A/N: **A lot of conversation in this chapter, but interaction was very necessary. Remember to leave a review!


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Yugioh or any Yugioh character depicted in this fic.

**Jabberwocky**

"And, as in uffish thought he stood,

The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,

Came whiffling through the tulgy wood,

And burbled as it came!"

"Jabberwocky" - Lewis Carrol

* * *

The apartment was dark; the air musty and stale, lending a slightly decrepit aspect to the room. Generally this would have inspired slight panic in him, the walls closing around in choking solitude. He moved towards the kitchen, shrugging off his coat and tugging at his tie until the knot rested low on his chest. Filling the kettle he set it to boil and fetched a mug from the cupboard. About to settle onto the bar stool at the kitchen counter he stiffened, head turning slowly. The blinds . . . and his routine, one that he had set so much store by, one that was responsible for maintaining his sanity through so many dark days, had been broken so quickly, so quietly, so subtly it had not even registered in his mind. Breathing hard, pupils dilating in the still dark apartment he sat very still. A bird flew past outside, a dove, its crooning call drifting after the shadow cast by the sweep of its wings. And still he sat in darkness, wonder at this new discovery growing in him. He was no longer afraid. His imagination cast no looming, flighty, snatching shadows, no spine-chilling, spectral laughter echoed in his ears, manufactured to realistic perfection by years of waiting for that very sound in deepest dread. Moving slowly, unconsciously carrying his empty mug, he entered the living room and stood silently at the centre. And he summoned a presence.

* * *

"You called?"

The thief stood opposite him, leaning against the mantlepiece, a gleam from under the lidded eyes the only indication that he was being observed. He saw the gaze travel around the apartment, lingering long on the still drawn blinds, the rumpled sofa, the dust on the coffee table, returning to his own silent countenance. And he saw a slight, possibly imagined, flicker of unease. He shifted, moving forward towards the yami's translucent form.

"You said you would help me."

"I did."

"How do you propose to do that?"

"I will show you."

"No. Tell me."

It was a command, despite the soft, cultured tones, the polite enunciation. The spirit considered him again, narrowly.

"As you wish. I will have to instruct you in the basic principles of shadow magic; how to bend the shadows to your will without being consumed by them. You've had more than a single brush with the Shadow Realm and you survived, somehow, without any lasting damage. Being the lighter half of my own soul may have contributed, possibly you have an innate resilience."

Bakura stood, head slightly tilted, listening carefully. At the mention of his sojourn in the Shadow Realm he had not even flinched. The spirit smirked.

"Are you ready to place yourself in my hands, boy? Do you _trust me_?"

A slight pause. Then, "Yes."

Eyes widening slightly the thief turned away and appeared to be absorbed in the framed photographs on the mantlepiece. Running a finger gently over the portrait of a very young Bakura seated happily in his mother's lap, he asked, very softly, "And why this sudden change?"

Reflected in the glass frame, he could see Bakura watching him intently. "I know you won't hurt me. Yami Yugi challenged you, and you will never allow him to be right."

Hissing slightly, he remained facing away, the finger now idly traveling across a photograph of Bakura, slightly older, hands resting lightly on his younger sister's shoulders, both squinting into the sunlight and smiling with the awkwardness of children who have had to hold their position for too long.

"So. You agree? You will absorb everything that I teach you, you will not grow nervous, try to run away or disobey a direct instruction?"

"I'll do my best."

He swung round, approaching the boy until their noses almost touched. Bakura took an involuntary step backwards, but the spirit did not sneer or comment. The dark eyes, so different from his own, and yet so similar, seemed to hold him in slight hypnosis, a cobra poised to strike.

"Your best might not be enough, young one. You must give everything you have and when you feel that you can do nothing more, I will be the one to push you even further. That is my role and I will fulfil it. I am your darkness and you need fear me no more."

* * *

"Usi was not skilled in the Shadow craft, here may lie our advantage. Whatever power he possessed which allowed him to return to this time may be great, but a master of the shadows always has the advantage. A penalty game conforms to the highest principles of the old magic, shadow magic itself is too volatile to command to perform a specific function unless handled by a master. Such as myself."

In the flickering firelight of his soul room, Bakura allowed the spirit a moment to preen. "What do you want me to do?"

"You have faced the shadows, and nearly been consumed had I not retrieved you in time."

Bakura noticed that the spirit had failed to mention that it had been himself who had banished his soul to the Shadow Realm in the first place. Wisely, he remained silent.

"In order to control them, you must face them again. Are you willing?"

Bakura nodded, quelling the nervousness coiling in the pit of his stomach. "Yes."

The spirit looked him over, noting and approving the erect posture, the clenched fists and the newly forged steel reinforcing the normally placid gaze. "Very well. I shall open a portal to the Shadow Realm. At first, you will merely accustom yourself to the . . . feelings it induces. A simple banishing or repellent will suffice to fend off most of the creatures inhabiting the Shadow Realm from the wielder of an item of power. Although I shall demonstrate both, you should keep in mind that a repellent needs to be maintained continuously to have any effect, and to someone new to the environment, such as yourself, this may be quite taxing on your strength. You shall call out to me if you feel threatened or the pressing need to return."

From the thief's tone, Bakura knew that he would not be pleased if he chose the latter option. He was very aware that this particular tutor had little patience for weakness and would be teaching him one of the most difficult lessons he had ever experienced.

"Afterwards, I will set you a task to perform without any assistance. Should you succeed, you can count yourself as somewhat adequate in controlling the shadows. Come here."

The spirit demonstrated the basic elements of the banishing ritual. Bakura had had little previous control of the Millenium Ring, so this presented a lot more difficulty to him than to his yami, to whom manipulation and illusions came as second nature.

"Concentrate. The Ring has its own awareness, so to speak. Over the years, it will have imbibed some of my traits." He grinned mischievously at Bakura's horrified expression. "Oh, yes. I don't see the need to panic. This will make it somewhat easier for you, I think. Just imagine that you are carrying a pocket-sized version of myself, albeit, with less intelligence. The Ring, although more powerful than you could possibly imagine, is inescapably _an object_. Although it may bring forth tremendous energy, the manner in which it is directed is vitally important. In simpler terms, you must be a shrewd, observant, calculating wielder."

And so he learned the first aspect of control; knowledge of oneself. Without the harnessing of will, without faith in ability and without, according to the spirit, a certain degree of pride and arrogance, the Ring would not respond as desired.

"Throw away your desire to surrender, to conform and accept," said the thief, prowling in a circle around him, his voice lower, more contained, more instructive than he had ever heard before. "Forget yourself as others know you. You are harder, stronger, more resilient than they will ever be. This I know." Bakura's eyes widened slightly at this, looking up, meeting the dark gaze of his spirit counterpart. The thief looked back, unwavering. "The command of the Ring will be yours, as long as you believe it to be so."

Once the banishment had been taught, the repellent ritual was a handy addition to his slowly growing repertoire. Worn out, with a hefty amount of homework waiting on his desk, he looked across at the spirit, at the strange, not unpleasant scrutiny of his heaving shoulders and drawn face.

"I will send you back now," was the curt summation. A pause. Then, "You've done . . . well, young one."

* * *

"It is time."

Bakura nodded, not trusting himself to speak just yet. It had been a week since the spirit had begun his strange education in the Shadow craft. Although he had stumbled blindly through the first few lessons, relying solely on the spirit's instruction, he had quickly developed a natural affinity for the things his yami showed him. Under the approving eye of the thief he had grasped the principles of not only stronger defensive tactics, but offensive maneuvers designed to target the sensitive areas of the opponent; the mind, the vital organs, the conscience. A well of courage grew within him with each passing day, one that no previous fear could steal away, the strength that comes with new knowledge. He had relied on himself for no more than self-sufficiency, the ability to look after himself during the long periods his father had been away, to achieve the best grades, to keep his head down and his strangeness away from others. Now he had his own ability, to fend off things similar to what his yami had been dealing with for over three thousand years and this gave him new self-confidence. Not only did he have this, he had the support of the very spirit whose existence had tormented him for the greater part of his life. The walls of his soul room which had allowed him to access the thief's memories was already beginning to distort in appearance, strange convolutions passing across its surface as if something malevolent and large were brushing against the barrier from the opposite side. Light and darkness were falling into a slow balance; he had never felt so alive, so near completion, so brave. Perspiration beaded his brow, gathered on his palms, the choking iciness of the Shadow Realm gradually seeping through, fighting, holding his strength. He took a step forward.

"I am ready."

* * *

The spirit watched as the boy stepped through the rift he had created directly into the Shadow Realm. The shifting shapes crawled across his slender form, drawing him further in. Waiting for an appropriately spaced period, the thief followed him.

Bakura was moving forward, steadily making his way further in. The boy reached up and rubbed his shoulders tentatively, but his pace did not flag. The spirit had warned him not to utilize the Ring unecessarily, using Shadow magic drew the creatures of this place like a siren's call. His own passage through the Shadow Realm was such a routine procedure that he knew he probably frequented this place more than any other in the history of shadowmancers. A slight smile curved the edge of his mouth. The boy could not ask for a better instructor.

And yet, there was something that constantly nagged at his mind, something which told him that despite their new-found bond, despite the growing trust and all their preparations, that there was some aspect of the entire situation to which he remained oblivious. He put it down to his ancient, uncannily accurate instinct, one that had never yet failed him in any of his endeavours. It drove him to distraction; this elusive feeling of self-doubt.

Bakura had paused some way ahead of him, scanning the darkness around him with an expression of slight unease. The spirit could gather what had drawn his attention; his finely honed senses, far more in tune with their current environment than the boy's, had been caught by the whiff of decay, of the foul scent of madness and indescribable hunger that preceded the Shadow golems. Constituting the most common form of what came closest to 'life' in these parts, golems were the evolutionary outcome of the stronger souls consumed by aeons of shadow battles. Six or seven he counted in all, converging on the hesitant form of his host as he turned on the spot, eyes straining to see past the bone-chilling gloom on every side.

_Stay calm, boy. Remember!_

Although he had closed the mind-link between them before entering the Shadow Realm, it seemed that Bakura's thoughts were far more in tune with his own than he had previously imagined. He saw the white-haired figure pause in its futile attempts to see what approached and slowly gather itself, the posture straightening, the hand gently rising to the Millenium Ring, the eyelids drifting downwards in solemn concentration.

_That's it. Stay focused. Be aware._

The Ring began to emit a slight glow. The spirit sensed the greed and blood-lust of the golems escalate as their pace picked up, slithering towards the motionless figure of Bakura. Tendrils of dark substance began to curl around him, almost obscuring him from the yami's view. Hideous groaning, keening echoes and vile gurgling drifted from the circling shapes, suddenly far more substantial than they had been moments before. Dancing flecks of bright yellow flame surrounded the boy, wafting eerily close, designed to lure the victim to imagined safety. Standing his ground, Bakura gripped the Ring hard. The spirit came closer, lip curling in anticipation as the Shadow golems tightened their prowling maneuver. They could sense something different about their prey, a strange lack of the delectable panic and the fear stench they thrived on.

Bakura turned, eyes snapping open. One thin arm outstretched, he shifted position, a foot sliding back to gain equilibrium of balance. A barely visible shield erupted from his form, crackling with latent energy. It extended in deathly silence, faster than the eye could follow, rushing past his fingertips and colliding with the writhing forms of his would-be attackers. Shrieks of rage and agony escaped the creatures as they desperately tried to regain their formation, to push themselves as far as possible from this strange human who projected such furious energy. Bolts of deep-hued, luminous blue static arced across their sizzling skin, piercing through their foul, borrowed flesh and burrowing deep through to where bone should be. Sickening splatters sounded from all sides as the golems deserted their assumed physical vessels, ghostly shapes flitting rapidly past Bakura, whipping his hair out behind him in a whirlwind of terror and darkness. As quickly as they had come, they were gone. The spirit, who had been completely taken aback by what he had witnessed, came forward to where the boy knelt and placed a hand on his shoulder. He had expended too much energy; the Shadow Realm's cold was seeping into his unguarded mind much faster than before.

The air around them seemed to shift and the spirit glanced over his shoulder, tucking his hands under Bakura's armpits and dragging him without difficulty through the portal he had opened back to the boy's soul room. In his grasp, Bakura twisted suddenly, trying to look up into his face. They were through before he had a chance to gauge his yami's reaction, however and he dragged himself upright, face pale and drawn, beads of sweat standing out on his forehead and upper lip. The spirit was watching him neutrally, hands clasped behind his back. Bakura stared back, holding his gaze for some time, apprehension growing inside as he attempted to establish the thief's reaction to his performance.

"You didn't banish them."

"What?" Still hazy, this strange observation made no sense to the boy.

"I said you didn't banish the creatures that attacked you."

Bakura shook his head, clearing it further. "What were they?"

"Shadow golems. You've encountered them before, you just don't remember. Or maybe you choose not to. That is beside the point, however." The spirit approached, stopping a few feet away, regarding him with a shrewdness that made him very nervous. "I never taught you that," he said, softly.

Bakura gulped. "Taught me . . . what?"

"The disintegration ritual. The force you harnessed from the Ring to destroy them."

"I . . . I _destroyed_ . . . But how? . . . I never . . ."

"I know you didn't mean to," interrupted the spirit, "Well, not entirely. What I do know is that you attempted a banishment and something much stronger came out of you."

"You mean something controlled me?" asked Bakura, his face turning impossibly pale.

The spirit chuckled deeply, lowering his head and looking cunningly up at his host from under his lashes in a way that Bakura did not like at all.

"Oh no, my dear boy. You did that _all by yourself_. It's all about intention, you see. If you thought about a simple banishment and executed it, all would have been as it should be. But you may have been afraid. You didn't know what was coming for you, and so you assumed the worst. People are frightened of the unknown. Your intention distorted from the simple banishing to something that would annihilate your opponent, so you would come to no harm. The result; a disintegration, one of the most destructive rituals one could unleash against lesser beings in the Shadow Realm. Not to mention the extensive sapping of energy it causes in an inexperienced caster."

Bakura, contrary to the spirit's expectations, was beginning to look more and more confused. "What's the matter?" snapped the latter, his tone more sharp than he had intended.

"I . . . I wasn't afraid. So . . . it doesn't make sense."

"What do you mean you were not afraid? Why else would you have attacked the golems in such a way?"

The boy was struggling for words, opening and closing his mouth several times. Finally, he looked away, seeming almost ashamed. "It wasn't fear . . . I felt calm, like I was separate . . . from me. I thought I could do this . . . I could banish them the way you taught me." He looked up and the spirit suddenly felt a cold hand clasp within his chest. "I . . . I wanted to make you proud." The last sentence was a mere whisper, so soft and yet never had the thief felt any emotion strike him with almost physical force the way it did at present. He looked up, meeting the gentle, open gaze. And he was plunged back, many, many centuries ago, to another pair of eyes that had looked up to another, an older man, eyes seeking the same acceptance, the same respect and affection. His own.

* * *

**A/N: Leave a review! Make this author happy! :)**


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Yugioh or any Yugioh character depicted in this fic.

**Jabberwocky**

"One, two! One, two! And through and through

The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!

He left it dead, and with its head

He went galumphing back."

"Jabberwocky" - Lewis Carrol

* * *

The night wind howled, lashing at the boy's shivering form as he surveyed the scene before him, but enthusiasm is an effective antidote to any discomfort felt by the young. In his case, the excitement of the chase, of proving himself worthy. Worthy of what, he wasn't certain, but something inherent in his nature always spurred him head-first into these situations; some of them wickedly difficult to extricate himself from.

Like that one time, when Baba had still been alive and he had been dared to steal his tobacco pouch while he slept. Baba, despite the facade he presented, became recklessly violent when angered or in battle. The boy had known that he risked his life in this pursuit, but he had been dared. And Bakura, the five-year-old, self-titled Prince of Thieves, backed down from no challenge. Especially if the grocer's son had issued it in the first place. That Jalal. _Psh_. Bakura could rub his fat face in the dirt with one hand tied behind his back. Like he could do to every other boy his age in the village, even some of the older ones. Everyone knew that if they escaped the might of his small fists, they could only pray to escape the agonising pinch of his sharp teeth in various, tender parts of their anatomy.

And so, while Baba had slept, Bakura had made use of his prodigious skills in sneaking and crawled under the table, the odour of stale sweat, horses, old leather and camphor producing a familiar sensory amalgamation that did nothing to comfort him. He still bore the scars of the last time Baba had beaten him, on his bottom no less. The tobacco pouch hung like a ripe fruit, tempting and laden with fragrant herb stolen from a merchant caravan that Baba had ambushed with the scouting party last week. Baba had even let Bakura take a pull from his pipe once, in one of his more benevolent moods.

In the denouement, Baba had opened his eyes at the wrong moment, precisely when Bakura had slipped the fastening on his belt and was about to slink away victoriously. A heavy hand had grabbed his hair, twisting viciously, pulling him kicking and thrashing through the air till he hung nose-to-nose with the bleary-eyed, terrifying vision of barely-sober fury. The other boys had scattered the moment Baba had awoken, Jalal being the foremost. And Bakura had done the only thing he could think of in that moment of sheer horror. He bit Baba's nose. Hard.

Suffice to say, he had not been able to return to the house for five nights, until the unsightly swelling on Baba's face had settled. Jalal had taunted him about sleeping in sacks near the communal fire like the lesser thieves and watchmen of Kul Elna. But when he had finally returned, looked Baba in the face and seen the small flash of amusement and pride before he was thrashed soundly, he knew that the dare had been well-played, even though he'd been caught. And he glowed with silent, inner self-congratulation at this victory, much to the consternation of his play-mates who did not understand. Even he did not fully comprehend, but he felt good all the same, the way only a child can.

Bakura did not understand the concept of love. Sentiments of this nature were not bandied about freely in Kul Elna. Such things belonged to the rich, those that could afford the luxury of attachment. And so, when Baba had never returned from a raid and the silence that preceded his men had told the villagers all they needed to know, Bakura didn't recognise the unbearably heavy, choking sensation that grasped at his insides, the hollowness that had been left by Baba's absence. He had gone some distance off and watched the sun rise, wondering why it was that these senseless tears fell. Baba hated crying. Even when Bakura was a baby, he had been slapped every time he so much as sniffled. Angrily, he wiped the moisture away. He would not shame Baba. He would not shame _himself_. And the days passed into weeks, and the weeks into months, and the silence that reigned where Baba's stertorous snores had once conquered all other sounds only induced a slight ache in his heart. But still, that elusive gap would not be filled. Bakura became brash, arrogant, reckless, always seeking the danger that he knew Baba would have sought himself. His old play-mates slowly lost their old camaraderie to awe and respect over the months that followed Baba's death and a new leader raised his small, shaggy white head where no boy had ever had ascendency before. And then Usi came.

Usi, with his quiet, rugged, weatherbeaten face that told of distant lands traveled, of strange spectacles witnessed. Usi, with his magic-tricks, performing slights-of-hand so skilful that even the sharp eyes of the thieves had trouble following him. Usi, with his aura of danger and mystery, his scrutiny that stripped you down to bare bone and a few feelings. His empty eyes, always watching. And young, brave Bakura, so aged beyond his years and yet so naive to the true nature of men, fell under his spell. Only a few days after the enigmatic drifter came to Kul Elna, the boy was seen in his company everywhere. Usi was nothing like Baba; he was silent where Baba roared, he smiled with no feeling where Baba slapped his knee and doubled over with laughter, he preferred the shadows at the edges of the crowd where Baba needed to be the centre of attention. His mode of operation fascinated the young child, who was drawn to this polar opposite of the man who had raised him like a moth to a flame. In his mind, Usi offered a stability that he needed, a standard to which he could be called. He never recognised the way Usi looked at him, the expression adorning his face when he regarded Bakura the same as when he watched the cock-fights and the insects that crawled near the campfires. Bakura stood out from the other boys; he was bright, agile, cunning and possessed a devilish wit and daring that Usi found . . . amusing. A suitable pawn indeed.

So Bakura found himself here, watching this tomb. Usi had not directly told him to be here, doing this. He had not even suggested it. He had merely informed Bakura, casually, that where he came from, boys were initiated into men when they performed an act of courage that equalled or even surpassed the deeds of the clan warriors. Such as bypassing the Royal Guards at the tombs, braving the numerous traps set throughout and obtaining a relic from the burial chamber that served to prove their passage. Of course, for a boy his age, as Usi condescendingly put it, simply getting past the guards into the first chamber and eluding them to emerge once more, might be sufficient to grant him worthiness. Never did he tell Bakura what he would be worthy of; the boy had taken it for granted that the older man meant access to his company or permission to travel with him and see far-off and exciting places. Perhaps even his affection. Determined to prove that he deserved Usi's respect, he had crowed about how he could get past the guards with ease and even snatch an item of priceless value from the tomb. Usi had regarded him expressionlessly, with a measuring glance that to this day made even _his_ blood run cold. The uneasiness of the men around him, the glances exchanged in hesitant secrecy, barely made an impression on his young, excitable mind. He would show them, especially Jalal. He would be a man.

* * *

"He's a clever boy . . . "

"More like the old man than he knows . . . "

"He doesn't really think . . . well . . .you know . . . "

"That he can get past the Imperial Guards?" A snort of laughter. "Of course he does! He's Bakura!"

More chuckling followed. Silence.

"The old man wanted to train him. A master thief, he said the boy would be. Pity he never told him that."

Nodding followed this statement. One raised his head slightly. "If any young one can get in there without the guards knowing, it's that one."

"Hmmmm. We should call him back before he does. Tell him we were pulling his stubby little leg."

One of the company turned slowly, expression coldly implacable. "Call him back? I thought we had a wager, my good men."

An uncomfortable pall settled on the company the moment this man spoke. All eyes turned away, yet nobody dared indicate that they weren't listening. The one who had defended Bakura's thieving ability, however, frowned.

"We don't hold wagers on the life of one of our own, Usi. Especially the young ones. Ra knows, with the Pharaoh's men on the move, we need to keep our numbers up."

Usi said nothing, merely stirring the embers of the fire, sending up sparks in the direction of the speaker, illuminating his young face and broad-shouldered frame. In turn, the shadows seemed to grow on the traveler's side of the fire.

"Are you backing down from a bet, my good man?" came the soft query.

Still undaunted, the thief stared back. "We had no bet. Only one in jest, Usi. Bakura is a good boy, there's no need to put him at risk." He paused, leaning forward, a curious look on his face. "He follows you around like a tail, doesn't he? I thought you were fond of him?"

Usi smiled his humourless grimace. "As fond as you are of your sword, I suppose. Would you have the same regard for it if you did not put it to use and it emerged unscathed, battle after battle?"

Uncertain laughter followed this statement, but the man opposite did not smile. He regarded Usi with a guarded glance of aversion before standing. "I'm going to fetch the boy before he does something stupid," he muttered.

"You will spoil our sport?" Suddenly, Usi was all smiles and gentle words, a paternal air stealing into his manner. "Come now, a little entertainment never hurt anybody. You yourself said that the boy is skilful enough to find his way in and back out."

The young thief crossed his arms stubbornly. "He's never been on a raid before. He's good at sneaking and stealing, but what use is that without experience or someone to guide him? You may not know it, _wanderer_, but we have an unwritten law in these parts; no young one's leave the compound without an elder or permission. If the Pharaoh's men got hold of one . . . how long do you think a child lasts under torture?"

Some of the men around the fire nodded in agreement, smoke rising from the glowing coals of their pipes as the motion made their heads wag back and forth. Usi glanced at another thief, a thin, sour faced man who had been silent throughout the entire conversation, occupying himself with sharpening a blade. The man glanced back; they momentarily locked gazes. Usi turned his eyes back towards the young man who had challenged him.

"Well then, a simple solution, my good man. Why don't _you_ accompany him?"

The statement caught the one addressed off guard. "Go with him? But . . . "

"Or are you also . . . _nervous_?"

Another laugh, this time heartier, made its rounds amongst the group of men. The young man bristled. "Very well, I will accompany Bakura. This will be his first raid . . . under my supervision," he added proudly.

"Oh, I envy you," said Usi smoothly, "I was hoping to take the boy myself . . . ah well."

* * *

The guards were shifting position in the shadows cast by the crumbling limestone wall surrounding the vaults. Bakura and his chosen protector, Hasani, were concealed behind a low hillock, their dusty cloaks allowing them to blend in with the sand-dunes and the sparse, dry grass that dotted the area. Bakura had wrapped a length of finely-woven linen around his face, as demonstrated by Hasani, to keep away the harsh sting of the night wind. He had also been awarded a shortened belt and a hilt for a small dagger. Hasani watched the boy sidelong with some anxiety. Huddled beside him, the cloak enhancing his small stature and drowning his child's limbs, the boy looked like he belonged more in a cradle than in the open, with a weapon he was more likely to cause _himself_ harm with. Young ones were usually taught the skills of raiding when they reached twelve summers, this one was far younger than any that had gone before. He was losing faith with every passing second; this was surely a suicide mission for a child.

Placing a firm hand on Bakura's shoulder, turning the boy towards him, he said, "It's not too late to turn back. Think. Think well."

As stubborn as ever, Bakura lifted his small chin and gazed down his nose at Hasani with a strangely imperious air. "I'm going in. Usi said to prove I was a man. I will do it."

The conviction in his words startled Hasani, somewhat. The bright, blue-grey eyes surveyed him with a fierce glint that told him that the boy would not be persuaded by direct means.

"All right, have it your way, dungbrain," he muttered, "But since you're younger than most at their first raid, I will be behind you every step of the way."

"But you're too big, you'll get in my way," was the artlessly blunt reply.

"Watch your tongue," the elder growled, "I'm not coming in, just staying out here to make sure the guards don't slice you to pieces. Don't wander too far in, just the first chamber, grab something and you're out again." He paused, seeing the rebelliousness sneak into Bakura's face before adding, "And don't even think of disobeying. If you take too long, I'll come in and fetch you. I'm sure _that _will make Usi proud . . ."

He watched the boy subside into sulky silence with satisfaction. "Good. Now follow me."

Sliding from their hiding place, Hasani with the smoothness of long practise, Bakura with the stealth of youth, they crept closer towards the guarded entrance, bent double. When they reached a close-enough point, Hasani loosened his belt and drew out a small sack which he fastened around Bakura's waist. From another pouch, he produced finely ground charcoal mixed with powdered incense which he smeared onto the boy's face and hands to mask tell-tale body odours and darken his complexion. Surveying him, he nodded as if satisfied and jerked his head. Without further need of encouragement, Bakura was off, trailing low, swinging away every time one of the guard's fields of vision threatened to encompass him. From behind him, he heard a low call, a whistling so faint it might have been the wind. The guards' ears perked up; they were obviously aware of the ruses used by tomb robbers to gain access to the vaults. Silently, one gestured to the other. Nodding, the second picked up his spear and disappeared round the corner of the wall in the direction of the call, whilst the other remained, eyes wary and watchful as he scanned the dark around him. Bakura picked up a small pebble and tossed it. It skittered a few feet away, rolling slightly, creating a loud enough diversion for the remaining guard.

"Who goes there?" he demanded loudly, obviously planning on alerting his partner.

Bakura crept closer, keeping to the rugged shadows of the uneven wall. Usi had taught him a handy trick a few days ago which he had taken much pleasure in perfecting. The art of voice projection. And the guard fell for a low whistle that seemed to come from somewhere amongst the rocks to his right, whilst a small shadow darted through the momentarily disregarded gate. Once in, Bakura had to restrain himself from crowing in delight. Hah. Jalal should see him now.

* * *

Outside in the chill bite of the wind, Hasani waited patiently. One of the guards had been alerted by his call, and, as expected, was trailing slowly towards him, leaving his companion to Bakura. He saw the man pause a few feet away, gaze traveling over the surface of the hillock. He carried a short-handled throwing spear and a cross-bow. Hasani shifted slightly again, each movement designed to create a little noise, drawing the guard further and further away from the vault. The young man's concern over Bakura's fate was gradually ebbing away in the thrill of his trap. The boy was a natural, he would make it out safely. All Hasani needed to do was get this one far enough to incapacitate him without any struggle and make his way back to pick up his charge if help was needed . . . and then a great pain at his temple and darkness.

At the end of Hasani's life, which was no long affair in any case; he only survived three months after this particular incident, he would attest to the fact that the other guard may have sneaked up and knocked him out from behind. How this was possible, he had no earthly idea. Hasani, despite being a good judge of character, was one for action, not thinking. He would, however, subsequently wonder why the guards would have forsaken their position for hunting him down, and why they hadn't killed him when they did. None of the Pharaoh's guards left a vault unattended. None of the Pharaoh's guards spared a tomb robber's life. He was glad that the boy escaped unscathed, however, even if he seemed strangely subdued afterwards and avoided others whenever possible. However, he did not puzzle over this for long. There were more important things for him to concern himself over, such as the imminent threat of the Pharaoh's troops. In shorter terms, the rest of that night was a painful blur for Hasani. Not so for Bakura.

* * *

He had not dawdled in the tomb, taking Hasani's threat to drag him out in all seriousness. Moving like a darting fox, he pattered softly about within, wary of traps and snatching anything that looked valuable enough to boast over or small enough to fit into his sack. At the end, he'd had to leave some things behind. Unlike other children, he had a strange sense of practicality, something that Baba had been somewhat responsible for. Breathing deeply, he welcomed the fresh night air back into his lungs as he hastened softly to the entrance.

_Remember, don't rush and grow careless because you are near the end. The escape is developed to the highest art amongst thieves; it sets the master apart from the hounds._

Baba's rare sage advice ringing in his ears, he edged forward. The dark shape of the other guard came into view, but something was wrong. He was not alone. With him were three others who conversed in low voices, nodding and shaking their heads and gesturing vigorously. Still undetected, he had crept closer, intent on hearing their discussion.

" . . . a sound, a low whistle . . ."

" . . . And he never came back?"

" . . . From over there, behind those rocks . . ."

"Damn thieves! They run amock in this place . . ."

Snatches of their conversation allowed him to piece together that the other guard had never returned and the one he had hoodwinked had alerted some others. He frowned. Surely Hasani would not have allowed this? Then again, maybe this was part of the test. Maybe Hasani was lurking just beyond the rocks ahead, ready to spring out and help him if he was injured. All men suffered some wounds, according to his knowledge. To prove himself worthy, maybe he would have to sustain some. He sucked in his proud little chest, ready to face whatever awaited him.

He would grit his teeth and grimace sourly when Ma tended his wounds, the way Baba did. He would not even whimper.

In the darkness beyond the vaults, the night wind whipping thin cloaks outwards, their shapes resembling barely visible, ragged flagmasts, two pairs of eyes watched, one eager and vicious, the other bottomless, deathlike, coldly amused. Silent as statues they stood above the unconcious form of Hasani and the disembowelled form of the guard. And they waited for the evening's entertainment to begin.

* * *

They were returning to the tomb, he could hear the crunch of their footsteps above the pounding of his young heart. Two were to search the tombs for any unwanted activity, the others to set out in search of their missing companion. He breathed out, trying desperately to calm himself, but his body did not pay attention. Pushing away from the wall against which he leant, he knew that he would have to make a run for it; both guards were burly in the small enclosure within the wall and he knew that they would be able to detect him very quickly. And no matter how young the culprit, they were not forgiving.

He closed his eyes, gave himself a few seconds to get properly oriented and dived for the entrance. Even his small form could not escape the detection of the hawk-eyed guards. A hand swiped at him, the fingers actually grazing his throat before he was past them, running faster than he ever had in his life. The world passed in a blur around him as a shout went up and he heard the sound of running feet.

_Crossbows!_ he remembered with sudden fear.

He began to move in a quick zig-zag the way he had been taught, sweat pouring down his face and cooling to chilly fingers of ice down his back as he listened to the_ thud _and _zing_ that the deadly intruments made. Puffs of sand erupted around him as he began to swing more erratically, desperate to reach the cover of the rocks before he was speared through. He could hear the longer strides of the guards as they strove to match his smaller ones.

_Where is Hasani? Has he abandoned me?_

In those moments, Bakura sincerely regretted his rudeness towards the older thief. Maybe if he had been more respectful Hasani wouldn't have left him to die . . . he was so scared. Turning his head was a mistake. A cold rush of air and a mind-numbing pain was all that registered as he tumbled to the dirt. Something warm and wet was gushing down his face and his right eye was completely dark. The entire side of his face felt as if it were on fire. The footsteps sounded louder behind him, a triumphant shout from one of the guards cutting off into a scream of agony as a missile sped overhead, thudding into the man's unprotected flesh.

Through the haze of pain, Bakura registered that help had arrived. Hasani hadn't abandoned him after all. But amongst the men who picked him up, who wiped the blood away and scrutinized his eye, patted his back and told him what a brave boy he was, he could not discern Hasani's familiar, handsome features. The thieves of Kul Elna, despite their rough existence and bloodthirsty policy, would certainly not allow one of their own to be taken by the Pharaoh's men so easily. And, it was generally agreed, this little one had more guts than many grown men in their village. He would be saved; he had certainly earned the right to it. The old man would be proud.

Amongst the banter of the returning party, Bakura sat in place of honour on the lead horseman's mount with the rider seated behind him. A powerful salve had been applied to his eye, many assuring him that it would heal and he would see again, but none mentioning that it would scar permanently. They knew the boy better. Knew that he would like to make such a discovery by himself, knew that strange as it may seem, he would be proud to wear such a physical token of bravery at such a young age. Little did they know what that scar would come to signify later, that the boy sitting so proudly at the head of their procession would deliberately deform his face further, one lengthwise gash across the vertical scar as a vow to destroy the Pharaoh, and a smaller beneath to signify his hatred for Usi and subsequent revenge, the man he would never forgive for betraying him twice.

And so, adrenalin allowing him an unprecedented level of alertness, he heard of the bet Usi had made. At first he swelled with pride, ecstatic that Usi had so much faith that he had layed such a huge amount of money on his success. But when they reached Kul Elna, there was no sign of the traveler and Bakura, who had been expecting to be greeted as a son and companion, felt his heart sink. Had he done something wrong? Had Usi expected him to do better? The unfairness welled up in him, creating tears that no amount of physical damage could induce.

But soon he knew better. And this knowledge came the moment he saw Usi sitting around a campfire in his usual position, with the other men. That descisive moment when he looked into the man's eyes and with a horrified certainty, knew the true nature of the wager that Usi had made. The man he had idolised, the man who's company he constantly sought, the man who had filled that gaping void like no other with his _trust_.

And looking into the soft, brown eyes of his host, so young, so impressionable, the ancient thief knew the weight of emotional responsibility for the first time. One that had been denied him, one that had rankled and festered for all the centuries of his long life. A life that had degenerated into one betrayal after another. He had been a fool to think himself one step ahead when Usi rejoined his ranks years later. A bigger fool than he would ever admit. Bakura knew that Usi had never meant for him to survive that fateful night, never forgiven him for proving him wrong. And yet, here was this boy, this living, breathing, thinking being, a modern projection of himself. He was as much in the present as he had ever hoped to be, despite the obstacles and the long imprisonment of his soul. And now, he would not allow anyone to take this new prize away, no matter what the cost. In Ryou Bakura, the spirit had found immortality.

* * *

**A/N: A healthy flashback always helps :) Review!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Yugioh or any Yugioh character portrayed in this fic.

**Jabberwocky**

"And, has thou slain the Jabberwock?

Come to my arms, my beamish boy!

O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!

He chortled in his joy"

"Jabberwocky" - Lewis Carrol

Here it was again. That feeling. Elusive, intangible, snaking its way through his mind, leaving a poisoned trail of doubt in its wake. He never doubted himself. Not since that day, the day his mind had been possessed. And yet, watching the boy with the newfound concern and protectiveness, he felt it coiling within him once again. Oh, how he hated it, how he hated Usi, how he hated feeling again. _Emotion was once for the weak. What happened to your philosophy, wise one? Do you even remember it? How you never feel for anyone but use everybody? What is it that you want, tomb robber? Or more rightly, who wants what of you? In finding hope have you made yourself a bigger fool than the Pharaoh and his loyal mindslaves? Who pulls the strings this time, is it you? I think not, King of Thieves, Pharoah's bane, Scourge of Egypt, weakling . . ._

Snarling, the spirit pulled himself away from such thoughts and concentrated on his host once again. He would not lose the battle with himself so easily. Too long had he suffered, the pain and torment all self-inflicted, all that he had brought upon himself through ingoring where the real power lay. It was within him, a withered little speck of almost nothing, a pulse beating where he had severed all links before. It was blossoming with every day since he had spoken to his host, pulled him from the shadow realm. Blossoming within with a radiance, a brilliance, the hope flaring through his long-dead veins like nectar. So different from the cold, distanced plans he had drawn out so many times in the vast, empty loneliness the Millenium Ring had afforded him. He had had no hope, just a sense of vindictive satisfaction when one more piece fell correctly into the pattern he was weaving around his hapless victims. So different from the strength he now drew from this new connection. _How can this be wrong? How can I find the answer so suddenly and lose understanding just as quickly? _

It had been so long ago. The experiences of that lifetime, of that man, were simply a distant dream, one he had used to feed his desire for vengeance. And so, exceptional and cunning as the spirit of the ring was, he did not recognise the emotions stirred by his newfound trust with another human being, did not register their familiarity. It brought him joy; he did not understand. It brought him hope; he was afraid to accept. It brought him belonging and safety; he mistrusted with an age-old sense of paranoia. He did not equate this heady sense of venturing forth without a plan, the consequences be damned, with the reckless, adrenaline-fueled escapades of his youth. Slowly, change reasserted itself, one excruciating step at a time. As his young host embraced the shadow that would forever be part of his soul, so did the ancient spirit fall into a rythym that had more influence over him than he could possibly imagine. The Thief King, the ancient bandit who had clung to the shreds of his short, magnificently violent and revolutionary life, could now momentarily be glimpsed in an action, a gesture, a word. That man, long buried, yet so full of burning vitality that he haunted the present with his panther's grace and burning eye, was returning to restore the balance.

He was alert today, paying attention in class, taking notes diligently. It was a strange breath of fresh air, to fall into an old pattern, the pattern that had prevailed before he was aware of the true nature of his curse. _Curse? Was it really defined as such? Could something so integrated into the fabric of his being be defined as evil?_ Nevertheless, his attention did not drift and he bent his mind to the diagram of the male reproductive system he was sketching in his biology book. The spirit was watching him. He could feel the ghostly attentiveness, and strangely, he did not find this frightening or discomforting. He snuck a surreptious glance across the room at Yugi. The spiky-haired boy was smiling to himself, nodding slightly as if thoroughly understanding and enoying the lesson. Bakura knew better; the Pharaoh was active today. On impulse, he tentatively opened the mind link to the spirit within his own mind. The wall of cold indifference he was accustomed to was absent, instead, he sensed curiosity and a small sense of trepadition similar to his own.

_Yami?_

_Yes?_

_Are you listening to the lesson?_

_Somewhat. Why do you ask?_

_Is it accurate?_

A trickle of amusement reached him across the mind-link. _Not particularly. I could teach your friends a thing or two about reproduction they won't hear in this class . . ._

Bakura grinned internally. _You mean things Yami Yugi wouldn't be able to tell Yugi?_

_Naturally. Mr. Holier-than-thou probably died a virgin . . ._

Bakura's snort of laughter reached the front of the class. The teacher turned with a frown and he hastily composed his features. Returning to his sketch, he felt a few stares in his direction. Looking up, he saw Yugi and Joey staring at him with questioning expressions. He paused, unsure of what response to give, feeling slightly guilty. Yugi lifted his chin once, as if asking what the matter was. For a moment, Bakura saw a flash of something darker behind the large, innocent gaze, a sudden narrowing of the eyes, a piercing scrutiny. To his surprise, he felt a surge of rebellious annoyance. He gave the two boys a cocky grin and a wink, lifting his sketch book and mouthing "Mine's bigger than your's."

Joey sputtered and immediately scribbled frantically on his own page to rectify the problem while Yugi turned scarlet and giggled nervously. Their attention momentarily diverted, he returned to the mind-link, pleased to find it was still open. The spirit was sniggering.

_Diversionary tactics . . . well done, boy._

He received a rough poke to the back of his head. Turning, he met the icy glare of a thoroughly irritated Seto Kaiba.

"Keep your schizo conversations to yourself, Bakura, or I'll personally see to it that you end up institutionalized."

The white-haired boy stared at Kaiba then downwards at the taller boy's desk. For once, Kaiba was not tapping away on his ever-present lap-top. He glanced up with a solemn expression of apology. "Sorry, old chap. Won't happen again."

Grunting with annoyance, Kaiba returned to his sketch and froze in disbelief. His painstakingly neat drawing had been replaced with a huge, untidy scrawl of a clenched fist with a raised middle finger.

_Did you see his face?_

Kicking back on the sofa, not even bothering to take off his shoes, Bakura put his feet up on the coffee-table and laughed so hard, tears formed at the corners of his eyes. The spirit appeared on the cushioned seat opposite him in an identical position, grinning like a Cheshire cat.

_Indeed. His ancient counterpart was just as emotionally constipated._

Bakura rose to fetch a soda from the refrigerator. _You knew him?_

_As well as one can know an enemy, I suppose. We certainly didn't socialize._

The boy returned with a thoughtful expression and resumed his position on the couch. The spirit realised with some surprise that they were still communicating through the mind-link even though they had long since passed from public observation. It just seemed more . . . right this way. Paying no more attention, he caught Bakura's next question.

_Did Malik Ishtar also have an . . . ancient counterpart?_

_You mean the psychopathic blonde with daddy issues? No. Priestess Isis, however, was a trusted advisor to the Pharaoh and the only female member of his inner council of High Priests. _He shot Bakura a meaningful look.

The boy nodded slowly in understanding. _Ah. Ishizu Ishtar. Of course. _

He lifted the soda and drank, aware of the spirit's scrutiny. _What is it?_

_Is that any good? _He was referring to the drink.

_I suppose_. He paused, not quite meeting the spirit's eyes. _Do you want to try it?_

A silence met this statement. Bakura still did not look up. Then, _If I may, that would be . . . welcome._

The boy nodded wordlessly. Opposite him, the lean figure of the thief vanished. He felt the presence slowly steal into him, almost cautiously. Bakura caught his breath. It was different from before, unlike the rough, mentally wrenching sensation he was accustomed to. They were both unused to co-operation; it was difficult at first, but soon the spirit's control flowed smoothly through Bakura's limbs. First to the fingertips, feeling the biting chill of the can, to his arm, raising tentatively for a sip, to his mouth and throat, tasting the sweet, carbonated liquid, wrinkling his nose as gas sped upwards in the wrong direction, stinging and sudden. Bakura laughed, a burp escaping his lips involuntarily.

_That wasn't too bad. I've had better, _said the spirit, non-committently.

A broad grin made its way across Bakura's face. So this was what Yugi was accustomed to. Companionship. Belonging. A friend. He guarded his thoughts carefully as the thief re-appeared in his previous position and he regained full sensation in his body. The brief possession had left him feeling slightly groggy, though. Heady. Like he was on a high. Was this what taking drugs felt like? It wasn't half-bad . . .

The thief certainly caught that. His head snapped around, the dark eyes narrowing as he looked the boy over.

_What's that?_

_What's what?_

_What did you just say?_

_I didn't say anything._

_Don't get smart with me, idiot. What was that about feeling giddy?_

_Nothing . . . I just . . . after you got into my head . . ._

_You feel dizzy? _Consternation passed across the spirit's face. _That never happens. Was it that drink?_

_No, it wasn't!_ Bakura countered indignantly, shaking the can so that the contents sloshed around. _See, I've only taken two sips. And it's a soda, for Heaven's sake . . ._

The spirit was at his side immediately, making him jump slightly. _Holy mackerel, will you . . ._

_Shut it! _snapped the thief. _Give me that can!_

_But . . ._

_Give it to me!_

The note of panic was evident. Bakura stared up in growing fear, his thoughts growing cloudier by the second, and handed over the can wordlessly. It hovered in mid-air then tipped over, the liquid contents spilling out and remaining airborne as if under zero gravity. Before the spirit had a chance to examine the swirling brown vortex he had created from the floating soda, the boy keeled over and collapsed heavily on the sofa.

_Boy! _In a flash, the spirit was at his side, phantom currents of air jerking Bakura's head sharply to and fro in an effort to wake him. He sagged limply against the cushions, his face pale, his breathing dangerously shallow.

_Bakura! Wake up, idiot! _

The mind-link was shut completely; he had no access to the boy's mind. This was no ordinary fainting spell. He tried possessing the boy's body in an attempt to extricate him from the effect of whatever he had drunk. He could not. It was as if there were an invisible barrier separating them. For the first time in many long years, the spirit tasted pure fear. _Impossible! I am part of his soul, this cannot be . . ._

Silence. Then the temperature in the room dropped until the boy's shallow breaths misted before his face. Outside noises were muted, darkness rippled sinuously across the room and the thief's eyes narrowed until they were mere slits, cheekbones standing out from the tautly stretched flesh as his jaw ground out a low hiss of cold, absolute, undiluted fury.

_Usi . . ._

The drink must have contained some magically-infused ingredient, undetectable by taste. There was no time to examine it any further. Only a Shadow battle would release Bakura from the creature's clutches. Oh yes, Usi was clever. Creating a threat in their minds, urging them to work together, creating a bond that could only be acheived between two halves of the same soul, forging trust, acceptance, friendship. And just when they let their guard down, just when they were least expecting it, he would strike, forcing them further apart than they had ever been once more. Why? A simple enough question. There was an equally simple answer, now that he thought about it. This was the way _it would hurt them the most_. This was his form of revenge. Not humiliation, not allowing the Pharaoh to gain in any way, not even a blow to his considerable pride and intellect. Usi would use the boy, the one person the spirit had always dismissed as a vessel, as a weaker being of lesser consequence, only fit to channel his considerable will. He had made the boy so much more, humanized him and yet brought them closer, made him more than a tool to be used at will. The spirit knew that whatever followed, he could never go back to the way it had been before. It was too much to give up, and yet, he now knew that this was no weakness. Together, there was strength.

The spirit was not impetuous. He never threw himself headlong into any situation without thinking matters through carefully, without weighing every option and determining the best outcome. That was his nature. But not so the King of Thieves. Khemnebi thrived on risk, on adrenaline, on the heady rush of sensations that came with never quite knowing what new turn fate would take. Revenge was his ultimate goal, and he was willing to take it by any means necessary. Khemnebi was, inescapably, human. Khemnebi had never had a friend, never trusted a soul. But he would not kill women and children, would not take the life of civilians that were separate from his cause. Bakura was a child; more importantly; he had the thief's trust. He was part of his very soul. And he'd be damned to devouring eternity if Usi would steal that too.

The Millenium Ring flared into existence on the thief's chest as his wiry frame, taut with rage and deadly purpose, vanished to the only other place from which he had access to Bakura. His soul room.

It was dark when he awoke. Awoke was not the word to use, in any case. When he regained a sense of self would be more accurate. He was not even sure what defined 'him' or what separated him from the endless stretch of shadow that furled around his weightless presence and stretched ahead as far as the eye could see. His body, if at all present, was non-functional. He could see; but with what he saw he did not know. His mind, however, was fully intact, that afforded him some small relief.

_Where am I? _

The silence extended beyond and around him, the desolation and abandonment it represented shouting to him louder than any vocal answer could.

_Yami? _

Still silence. Not even his own pulse thundered in his ears, the way it did when panic set in, like at present.

_YAMI? Where are you?_

The change was so sudden, he barely had time to catch his breath, if air was what he inhaled in this place. Light flashed past him, images, he realised, images of another's life. They streaked past too fast for him to resolve any definite pattern, but he glimpsed white hair, dark skin. His mind shrunk from the coldly inevitable. Yes, he had called, but this was not the answer he expected. Why was he here? He couldn't really remember. He recalled himself, laughing, a soda, the thief sprawled nonchalantly opposite him, but afterwards . . . was blurry at best. How did this happen? Where was he? Surely . . . no, the spirit had warned him, had protected him. Usi, yes, Usi, the man his yami had spoken of. He must be responsible, but how? Bakura swung between panic, misery and a desperate attempt to regain control of his emotions which were spilling from him like sand from a broken hourglass.

_You wouldn't do this, would you? You wouldn't deceive me? I know we felt . . . something. Kinship. I know you felt it too! You left the mindlink open on purpose, so that I could see . . . so that I knew you were honest with me. _

Pain, more heavy, more twisting than he had felt in a long time spiralled through his unguarded mind at the possibility of the thief's betrayal.

_You wouldn't . . . not again . . . please . . ._

And a voice, harsh, grating, edged with the roughness of one who is unaccustomed to everyday pleasantry, echoed through his wheeling thoughts.

_What's the matter with you, boy? Get up, get a grip on yourself. You think sitting there, yowling like a wolf cub will strengthen you? GET UP!_

Bakura's attention snapped to full alertness, his awareness seeking desperately out, questing towards the source of the one who addressed him.

_Hello? _Even as a thought, his mental voice quavered.

A derisive snort greeted his attempt at contact. _Is that the best you can do? Come on, you stupid little runt. Hold yourself together, don't lose your mind to the Shadows. Didn't anyone ever teach you?_

_Who . . . who are you?_

_Hah. Who am I. Who are you? Can you answer that, whelp?_

_Bakura. _The moment he said it, he felt a slight warmth re-enter his loosely scattered essence, bringing him slowly together. _Bakura_, he said, more firmly, _I'm Bakura._

_Hmph. Bakura. Not much of a name. Not much of a boy._ A darkness crept into the voice, infinitely sinister, deathly soft and terrifying._ And why do you intrude, here, Bakura? This is my domain, the penalty of trespass is to be consumed by the Shadows._

Panic set in once again, but he held himself firm and stayed focused. _Think about now. Tell the truth. Think about consequences later._

Laughter echoed around him as his stray thought was picked up with effortless ease, demented laughter, uninhibited, a slight gasp before the sound indicating the owner's genuine, unrestrained merriment.

_You have some rudiments of sense, stupid, little one. How is it that one such as yourself comes to me? You would not have lasted a few moments under the . . . protection surrounding this place. I confess myself curious._

The flashing, darting images around Bakura did not cease their endless motion. No matter how hard he tried to focus, they seemed to move faster when he looked at them. Firming his resolve, he voiced the suspicion he had been harbouring.

_Usi? Is that your name?_

A profound silence followed this. The light cast by the fleeting memories was suddenly extinguished as they disappeared, leaving him in the dark once again. Except this time, the darkness seemed alive, aware, pushing against him with the malevolence of a shark drifting beneath a fragile fishing boat, poised to emerge and engulf him.

_Usi . . . _came the voice, and Bakura shrunk as deep within himself as posible at the tone that sent spikes of icy terror ripping through his mind. _ Usi. Now that's a name I haven't heard in a long time. Where did you hear it, sweet one? Was it he, himself who sent you here?_

_NO! _In sheer horror, Bakura opened his mind fully, allowing the dark voice to see that he told the truth. _No! Never! The spirit was trying to stop him, to teach me shadow magic so I could defend myself . . . Usi is trying to . . . get to me. That's what he . . ._

_Enough. _The quiet finality made Bakura comply hastily. _That does not mean he is not responsible for your _ _presence. It still does not explain why you are here. Or how you know of him._

_The spirit!_ Bakura marshalled his thoughts into some working order. _The spirit of the Ring. He told me about Usi. The spirit will come to fetch me, I know he will. Then I can leave and you will never hear from me again._

_That does not answer my question, imbecilic one. How did you come to be here?_

_I . . . I don't know. _His voice sounded very small, even to his own ears. _I was with the spirit, we were together. Then I was here. I don't know how._

Another profound silence. Then, with a cunning that sounded oddly familiar, _So . . . this spirit, you and he are well acquainted?_

Suspicion flared in Bakura's mind once more. The spirit may have abandoned him. He may also be seeking him this very minute. That should have no influence on his own decisions regarding their partnership. He had felt it to be real. That is what he would go by. He would not betray the thief, no matter what the cost to himself.

With far more bravado than he felt, he asked, _What business is it of yours? He is coming to fetch me, he will not leave me here . . . wherever this is._

A raspy chuckle greeted his ears. _Indeed. You seem to have faith in this spirit of yours. Has he given you reason to trust him? Are you . . . close?_

The manner in which the question was phrased made Bakura frown internally. _Yes, we are bonded. He will come for me. I trust him._ Deciding that he would take a small risk, he added, _And he is powerful. Very powerful. He will not be pleased if I am . . . harmed in any way._

The chuckle deepened to another hysterical, frighteningly pitched laugh. Bakura shuddered and tried to close his mind to it. _Angry? Oh, I'm sure he will be, precious one. I'm sure he will. Tell me, do you know who Usi really is? Has the spirit told you what Usi has done to deserve his vengeance?_

_Vengeance?_ _Yes . . . he betrayed him. A long time ago. _Then tentatively, _But then . . . who are you?_

_A very good question. One you should have made sure you knew the answer to long before we had this conversation. You are trusting, too trusting. But considering the spirit you are bonded to, I am not surprised in the slightest._

_Wh . . . what do you mean?_

_I know the . . . nature of your bond. The way you speak of him tells me much of your association. What is the phrase? . . . once bitten twice shy, am I right? It took much for you to trust him . . ._

_I have no idea . . ._

_Oh come off it!_ The voice snapped irratibly making Bakura wince. _You have your role, he has his. And, oh the irony of it all, so do I have a part to play._

_But . . . but then you are Usi!_

_Never call me by that name!_ The growl sounded everywhere and nowhere, deepening to an ominous rumble of rage. Another laugh, one that terrified Bakura with its barely contained insanity and fury. _You think to equate me to that . . . creature? I had a cause, a just one. One I do not need to account to a mere mortal such as yourself. But you are here for a reason, that much I can tell. And from your ridiculously unguarded conversation with someone you cannot even see, I have deduced what needs to be done. Maybe you should practise caution, little cockroach, it might serve you well in future endeavours. _

Bakura listened in growing disbelief, unable to grasp how he had not seen . . . not realised before now. This . . . was most certainly not who he had thought it had been. This was . . . impossible.

_But how? _His fear, suddenly forgotten, was replaced by pure bewilderment.

_How indeed. Use your miniscule faculties. I am a memory, a powerful one at that. And I have a task. _

_A . . . task?_

_Oh yes. Hah. You didn't think you would enter my realm and simply . . . leave again, did you?_

_But it was unintentional!_

_I know that, witless. Isis's holy tits, did you think you would even be conscious here, let alone speaking to me if you had come here with intent?_

_Isis's what?_

_Oh dear, your spirit will kill me for cursing in front of you. Shut up and pay attention. Then you will know what to do._

_What is it that I must do?_

_You must save his soul. He has locked me away, here, for more than a necessary time . . ._

_No! Let him be!_

_Why are you telling me? Protest to the one who has been stalking his dreams . . . and yours._

_Usi?_

_That's the one. _

_Where is he? _Panic flooded his mind once again. _Where is my yami? He's coming for me, isn't he? I'm the bait! What have you done?_

_Listen_. The voice took on a quiet intonation. _Watch. You will see exactly what must be done to save your spirit from the one he fears._

Bakura was suddenly plunged into brilliance once more, his thoughts scattered and reeling as memories, shreds of a long dead life swallowed and regurgitated his struggling conscience. From one through to the other he sped, for no more than a moment in each, yet gaining knowledge that seemed to come from a place an eternity away from his small, sheltered existence. He saw a boy, young, wild, slate-blue eyes flashing with excitement and exhilaration as he raced ahead of a group of youngsters, just as dusty and ragged as himself. He saw the boy laugh, he saw him furious, now sulky and now full of childish wonder. He saw him cry, bleed, shout in ecstasy, the rays of a glorious, foreign sun burnishing his white hair to a regal red. And he saw a shadow that stalked the boy, a man's form, one that watched with strange detachment and a painted smile. He saw the hatred that followed the boy as he passed from haunted childhood to bloody adolescence to dominating adulthood. The last memory that came to him, that lingered long in his mind, was the scene from his dream. The chill desert night, the dust in the air, the red cloak that danced in the wind and the hulking shadow beside the man he had come to trust, to believe in above all others. And a thought came back to him, the realisaton of something the spirit had said to him long before.

_Yami . . . _

_It will not be long. Prepare yourself. Today, your fears will be conquered. _

**A/N: **And so the final battle begins :) All feedback appreciated!


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Yugioh or any Yugioh character portrayed in this fic.

**Jabberwocky**

It came as a surprise, even to him. The soul room was a reflection of one's true nature, the place in which one felt most at home. When the spirit had first wielded the Millenium Ring as a young man, that place had been Kul Elna. Not the ghost town it had come to be, but as it was when he had run, dusty, dirty, full of youthful joy, through its crowded streets. There was nobody else there, that was always the case. He was always alone. But the spirits that inhabited the Kul Elna of his soul room were not vengeful and cold. They were as they had been as people, some loving, some cunning, some industrious and some brave. He never saw them, but he could feel them, brushing his thoughts with comforting fingers of companionship. And he was never truly alone.

And, as the years had passed, and then the decades and the centuries of his imprisonment, that place had faded away. He no longer had a place in his heart for such memories. Those things would only weaken him, drive him from his true purpose. He had sacrificed his soul to remain here in order to take his vengeance. Another, small sacrifice it was to make, to forget this place. And yet, it had not felt like one. Even at the height of his hatred, in the deepest, most convoluted machinations of his plotting, there had always been a small part of his mind that preserved this memory. A part that regretted the darkness that swallowed his soul room, that made it a true reflection of the creature he had become. Over the years, the soul room had become one with the Shadow Realm, an indication of how far he had fallen.

And now the dark place had gone. His soul room was as he remembered it, so long ago. His shock was immeasurable and that was saying something. For a whole minute, he stood, his mind blank. The dust of the empty streets, the breeze that swept his shaggy hair back, the burn of the sun and the open windows that looked into rooms, empty, but still clean, almost as if waiting for the inhabitants to return at any minute. He closed his eyes and shivered imperceptibly as he felt the brush of his peoples' spirits against his thoughts. Their presence was so sudden, so familiar, that he felt a prick at the corner of his eye which he quickly dismissed. _Welcome back_, they seemed to say, _welcome back, our brother, our son, our own. _

He ventured a little further, towards the well at the centre. A fear built inside him, that this place would disappear and leave him with cruel, dark reality at any minute. He stopped just before the rocky lip of the deep bore and his thoughts recalled him to the boy. Where was Bakura? He needed to orient himself to these new surroundings before he set off in pursuit. _Can this all be because of him?_ he thought with a startled jerk. _Could my connection with the boy have changed my very soul? _It was certainly a strange thought, one he would spend much time dwelling on, but now was not that time. Turning slowly on the spot, his gaze returned, almost unwillingly, to the well. He knew that this was it, the focal point of this place. Water. It was the most jealously guarded asset of his village, despite the fact that they were a community of thieves and had caches of valuables stashed throughout the town. He had found all these hidden stores himself, a long time ago, when he had returned to his village during his years as a masterthief-in-training.

He took a step further, peering into the depths of the well, willing it to show him what he wanted.

_Where is he? Show me, tell me, help me . . . _

The answer that came was not one he had been expecting. The spirits that inhabited the soul-room village became silent and still, an almost apprehensive feel to their presence now. He realised that they were waiting . . . he stood still as a statue, his own posture rigid and alert.

_So, you return?_

That voice . . . he spun on his heel, the dark, haunted eyes wide. _Impossible . . . _

_Impossible? No. Surely you have not become so dense with age?_

He shook his head as if to clear it, the customary snarl back in place. _Where is the boy?_

_He is here . . . and he is not._

The spirit was silent, waiting. He knew that further questioning would gain him no further knowledge.

A chuckle. The voice had taken on a sneering note. _My, my. So patient. Your prison has taught you well. Tell me, _mighty spirit, _is it true? Have you really come here for the boy? _

_What is it to you? _He already knew the identity of the voice; he had no reason to be afraid, but this had never happened before. He did not know what new challenge this might present.

_It is everything to me. _Softer now, the rage and madness all apparent. _You were the one who cast me away here, the one who threw away the key. Did you think it would help? Did you not realise until now of what value the child is to you? To US?_

_That is no business of yours! _the spirit spat in response, beginning to pace to and fro. _You want revenge, do you not? You would do anything to achieve those ends, would you not? You would have done as I did . . . you did do as I did, hah!_

_I am not you and you are not me. And yet, we are one and the same. _

A shift in the fabric of reality, of this reality, and the ancient spirit's head snapped up, shock and disbelief momentarily clouding his vision. The street before him took on a hazy appearance, as if a great wave of heat had rolled across the parched earth. A figure appeared, vague and indisinct, the shimmer of the strange haze distorting the swifty striding form. As the man, for it was most definitely a male, came closer, his form became clearer. Straight towards the immobile spirit he came, puffs of dust rising from beneath his slippered feet with each confident, prowling footfall. The fiery desert sun struck and reflected off the sword and throwing daggers at his belt, the hooked staff strapped across across his back, the quiver of arrows and the hunter's bow in his hand. A regal, blood-red robe swayed hypnotically with each movement, draped across the broad, slightly bent shoulders, the powerful arms and the strong, long-fingered thief's hands; his hands. The gleam of hair as he came closer, white hair underneath the protective _shora_. And finally the eyes, grey as the cloudy mountains he had seen in his travels to distant lands, blue lurking beneath, vivid, shadowed, filled with memories he thought he had shut away. A gaze infused with steel, passion, cunning and a depth few had courage to plumb. The eyes of the man he had left behind. Khemnebi, Lord of all Thieves.

He let out a breath he did not know he had been holding. The Thief King smirked.

_Well met, Spirit._

_Well met, Thief. _

_Where is the boy? That was what you wanted to know._

_Yes. I know that Usi has him._

Khemnebi smirked. _I know where to find him. _ He gestured to the well and gave a mocking bow.

The spirit approached the well again, looking dubious. His counterpart seemed to find this very amusing.

_What's the matter? Don't you trust yourself?_

_No. That's rather the point._

The spirit paused as a portion of the rough-edged, rocky wall surrounding the well crumbled and fell away, giving him just enough space to pass through. Without glancing back at Khemnebi, he stepped forward, no hesitation or fear apparent, and dropped through the gaping hole like a diver. Left alone in the streets of Kul Elna, the Thief King stared at the mouth of well, his expression distant and thoughtful.

The place he found himself in created a strange sensation in his chest, one he did not entirely recognise. It was Bakura's soul-room as it had appeared, after his months of possession. When the comfortable cosiness of the family study had morphed into a dull, featureless room with no personal touch. When the boy had become aware that there was something inside of him; something which was dark, cold and hurt the people he cared about. Something that had driven him away from others even when his desire for companionship and an end to his perpetual isolation were the wishes he needed to fulfil the most. Guilt. Strange how soft-footed and gently it came to the spirit now.

There was a man standing at the window that looked out onto a small lawn. On this small piece of turf, the spirit had sometimes caught Bakura (on the rare occasions that he returned to the boy's soul-room to check on him) watching his family; mother, father and younger sister, play together and talk. The mother lounged on her stomach, elbows balancing her weight as she squinted into the sun, her wide, lovely smile enraptured, enrapturing. She laughed, a high, merry, clear sound at the younger, less careworn and beaming version of Bakura's father as he chased the little girl around her mother's reclining form. The child was shrieking with delight, her short legs barely carrying her beyond her father's footfall. Bakura himself had never been near or with them. He would stay at his window in solitary vigil, his expression one of wonder, softness and sweet memory, as if he could not believe that he had once had such people to love and to be loved by in return. The spirit had aways mocked him for this mentality. Only once had he been curious as to why Bakura never felt bitter, angry or lost when he looked on at this scene. He now knew the answer, with sudden certainty. Real love, the type that binds even when you have long passed from the earth, that love could never be tainted by recollection. It was the spirit's own fault that he had chosen to be tied to his fate by hatred; bitterness was a natural phenomenon for him.

And here was this man, this stranger cloaked in concealing shadow, looking out at the empty lawn in the very spot Bakura had occupied when he had been here. An intruder. And the spirit had a very good idea as to who he might be. The old rage built within him, only this time it was stronger, more primal, an overwhelming sense of protectiveness and responsibility for the boy who had been imprisoned by this creature.

_You came. _A pause._ You seem angry. _

_Where is the boy?_

_I can feel it. You are furious._

_Hand over the boy and I may consider shortening your suffering. And you may cast off those shadows. I know very well who you are._

_Do you indeed?_

The man turned from the window, his face, form and voice blurred and distorted by rampant Shadow Magic. The spirit sneered.

_So, this is what becomes of spirits who choose . . . lesser items to bind their souls in. I know you Usi. The stink that surrounds all your schemes, if I may dignify what you do by calling it as such._

_Why are you angry?_

This dogged persistence only served to infuriate the spirit further. He growled and took a step towards his opponent. _A shadow battle? I'm more than ready. State your terms and let's be over with this. _

Usi made no move. _What makes you think he wants to be rescued?_

_What?_ The spirit was thrown off balance by this, but hastily recovered his composure. _Are you mad? I've been preparing him against you for some time now. He knows all about your history, your betrayal . . . your little wager. _ This last was hissed out with a venemous snarl. _If you think you can gain his trust, think again, guttersnake._

_What I have done to the boy is no worse than what you have done. I have imprisoned him. I have not stolen his life, cast him away in misery to live as a shadow. What right have you to be angry?_

_He is mine, we are one and the same. I will not let you use him, as you did me._

_You mean the way you used him?_

_ENOUGH! _Shadows leapt, flaming with dark energy, from the spirit's hands. His eyes grew darker, narrower, embers of hatred burning in their depths until they appeared almost scarlet. _Release him. Now._

Instead of answering, the shadow-man raised an arm and the walls of the room around them began to flicker. The spirit's eyes widened slightly. What was this new trickery? How could Usi have gained such a level of control in Bakura's soul room? Images began to pan across the spirit's vision, images that were terrifying in their familiarity. A young boy, white haired, bare chested and barefoot, being soundly spanked by his raging father, tears and mucous forming a sticky medley on his swollen-eyed, bawling face. The desert sand rushing up to meet him, the darkness over his right eye, blood running freely down his face from the shot of the crossbow bolt. A dark night, the screaming, the thud of arrows meeting flesh, the tearing of swords through clothes and limbs, the whoosh of torches as they set light to the thatch roofs, the blood that ran in thick, dark rivers through the streets of Kul Elna.

_What do you think you're doing? Where did you see this? _The spirit took a step back, bringing his hands up to the sides of his head, disbelief written all over his features. Usi made no reply. He maintained his posture, completely disregarding the spirit's outrage.

_I SAID WHERE DID YOU FIND THESE THINGS? _A wall of crackling energy shot from the spirit's body, crashing into the rigid form of Usi. Staggering back under the force of the spirit's fury, his opponent countered with a shimmering defensive wall. The torrent of images flashing along the walls did not cease. A tomb, dusty, claustrophobic, one of his first, the crushing weight of the rock trap against his leg. The heat, delirium, the _pain_! He was being dragged behind the horses of the Pharoah's men, rocks cutting mercilessly into his flesh, grit gathering in the wounds, the hooves of his tormentor's mounts flashing dangerously close to his unprotected face. The agony of the whip as it bit into his back, the knotted tails catching in his flesh . . .

_STOP! NOW! _Another pulsing burst of shadow magic crashed into Usi's shield and an enraged scream from the spirit echoed around the confines of the soul-room. The defensive barrier held strong and the memories that were driving the spirit to distraction suddenly ceased, to be replaced with endless darkness, stretching away on all sides. It was as if Bakura's soul-room had suddenly ceased to exist. Seeing the spirit's sudden disorientation, Usi stepped forward.

_See? I have complete control here. I know the power of my soul . . ._

_What have you done with him? _The spirit's voice had begun to waver, the madness in his eyes growing with every minute. _Where is he? This is his soul-room. _

_Yes, it is. _

_No more riddles, Usi!_

_What will you give? What will you give for him?_

A lifetime of hatred, of bitterness, of thwarted fate and isolation seemed to compound itself into this single moment and the spirit clenched his fist, his eyes wild, his breathing laboured. What would his life be without Bakura? Empty, dark, stretching on through the cold vastness of eternity, his own bonds of misery and hopeless attachment keeping him here forever. For the first time, the spirit truly realised what the boy had felt during his possession. Without the scheming and hatred that fed the spirit's malevolence and kept his mind alive for centuries in the Ring, what sustained Bakura? Was it this beacon of hope, so small, so fragile, so easily shattered? That there was something better waiting for him at the end of all this suffering and pain?

Yes, Bakura had his family to look forward to. That was what had held him at the window for the long days of his possession, what had anchored him to reality, to the life that may yet be returned to him. But what of himself, the spirit? What did he have to keep him here? His mind flashed to the Pharoah, to his lifelong quest for vengeance, but just as quickly another image came to mind. One of the boy. It was a simple enough scene; Bakura, in his blue school uniform, walking along a sidewalk, his backpack on his thin shoulders. But it was not the boy's actions which seemed to arrest the spirit. It was his posture, his expression, the way he walked. There was an upright quality to his mannerisms, so different from the shy, shrinking child he had known. His eyes looked outwards at the world, bright, gentle curiosity and a luminous intellect, open for all to see. Such a contrast to the introspective, farway quality his gaze sometimes held. His smile was genuine, a softer projection of his mother's cheerfulness, and all who would be on the receiving end of such pleasant, sweet emotion would feel uplifted somehow, as if the things which troubled their minds were somehow trivial when the world around them held such beauty. This the spirit knew. Contrary to what he often said to Bakura about weakness, he knew the strength, the power of the kind heart beneath, one that would forgive and accept even one such as himself.

And in that moment he knew with definitive certainty, that Bakura had so much more to accomplish, so much further experience to take joy from in his young life. Yes, the thief had stolen so much of that time from him in his endless plots that seemed so distant to him now. But there was always redemption for those who had sinned. Bakura had shown him that in all his compassion and vulnerability. And he would repay that favour with all that he had to give.

Usi's voice came to him again, prompting him make a decision on the offer at hand. _What are you willing to give for the life of Bakura? _

_Myself. I offer myself for him. It's more than a fair bargain. You want your revenge, take it. _The spirit came closer, trembling with the effort of maintaining his composure. _Let him go. You can do whatever you want to me._

Silence stretched into seconds and then minutes as Usi regarded the white-haired man before him.

_Are you certain of this? Once you accept, Thief King, there is no going back. _

_I am certain._

_You are willing to give your life for the boy?_

_I am willing to give anything._

In the central square of Kul Elna, the man in the red cloak raised his head suddenly as if listening. The spirits which wandered past him drew closer suddenly, their excitement palpable. He stood and picked up his hunter's bow and pack, pausing momentarily before the lip of the well.

A voice seemed to echo in his mind, a young, timid voice. The voice of the boy, Bakura. Khemnebi closed his eyes, remembering the uncertainty, the fear when Bakura had mistaken him for Usi, the sudden hope that had flared when he had told the boy that his yami would be coming for him and the fear when a trap for the spirit was suspected in the young, vulnerable mind.

_What did you do? What did you do, King of Thieves, murderer, plunderer of all that is sacred, master of shadows? How did you gain such trust and so firm a place in the heart of one so good? _

The eyes opened, the slate-blue gaze was raised to the heavens and Khemnebi laughed, the pure, untainted joy rising in a deep, sonorous melody, ringing through the empty streets of Kul Elna.

The darkness was endless, as seemed this silence, the cold which seemed to chill the spirit's soul almost like the depths of Shadow Realm itself. And then Usi spoke, and the words he spoke were not words the spirit expected.

_Thank you._

_What?_

_Thank you. For showing me how you are now equal. _

_What do you mean? Where is Bakura?_

_He is here. _

_ENOUGH OF YOUR GAMES! I TOLD YOU I WOULD GIVE MYSELF . . ._

_As would he._

The spirit stopped, shock reverberating through his mind. _What did you say?_

_As would Bakura. Your lighter half. He has proven himself your equal, and your heart has proven to be just as strong as his. You are both a perfect balance of light and darkness, and I have proven it._

Bewildered, the spirit took a step back. _Proven what? What do want from me? SPEAK USI! Give Bakura back!_

_Gladly._

And the spirit watched in growing consternation and bewilderment as the shadows surrounding Usi began to shimmer and fade, receding as the darkness around them resolved itself into the lighter forms and solid shapes of the study in Bakura's family home.

_Usi is long gone, spirit, dead for centuries. He never was here, nor did he hold sway over you or I. _

The last of the lingering obscurity dissipated, leaving behind a single figure, arms outstretched towards the spirit, soft white hair catching the sunlight that burst through the high windows in a fiery halo, a face alight with pride and gentleness.

The face of Ryou Bakura.

**A/N: Bet you weren't expecting that. And never fear, for those that are experiencing a healthy dose of confusion, all shall be explained in the next chapter :)**


End file.
